■jf  V 


(■M..'.:'-f.'  -1  ■'  ■ 


MRS.  GEO.  A.  LYMAN. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


P" 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


By   HAMILTON   AIDE, 


AUTHOR  OF   "RITA,"   "THE   MARSTONS,"   &c.,  &c. 


BOSTON : 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

(late  TICKNOR  &    FIELDS,   AND   FIELDS,    OSGOOD,    &    CO.,) 

124  Tremont  Street. 
1S73. 


Boston  : 
stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Rand,  A  very,  &"  Co. 


A.t>i>\ 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


-♦♦V- 


CHAPTER  I. 

After  a  long  interval,  and  much  delib- 
eration, I  am  resolved  to  write  a  record  of 
my  very  early  life.  This  memoir  will  stop 
at  my  twenty-fourth  year,  after  which  there 
has  occurred  nothing  in  my  monotonous 
existence  (as  some  would  call  it)  which  tlie 
world  would  care  to  hear. 

But  will  it  care  to  hear  that  which  I 
am  minded  to  tell  ?  Has  it  not  had  a  sur- 
feit of  autobiographies,  with  all  their 
maudlin  intros]iection,  their  insufferable 
egotism  and  self-analysis  ?  Can  it  be  edi- 
fied by  learning  aught  of  my  career?  I, 
■who  am  neither  scholar  nor  deep  thinker  ? 
not  in  any  sense,  I  lear,  as  these  pages 
will  show,  a  wise  or  verv  fjood  man  ?  Yes  : 
I  may  be  deceiving  myself;  but  I  believe 
the  confession  of  folly  and  error  may  be 
useful  to  some,  perhiips  not  wholly  unin- 
teresting to  any  ;  and  this  is  one  reason 
why  I  write.     But  there  is  another. 

Do  you  know  the  game  of  '•  Russian 
Scamhd?"  where  ever-increasing  inexacti- 
tude transforms  a  story  which  is  passed 
from  mouth  to  mouth  into  something  which 
bears  but  the  faintest  resemblance  to  the 
original  statement?  I  defy  the  rolling- 
stone  of  gossip  to  gather  more  mud  in  St. 
Petersburg  than  it  does  in  London  ;  and  I 
have  suffered  as  much  as  any  man  thereby. 
Certain  parsages  in  my  liiii,  grossly  dis- 
t(jrted,  were  bruited  abroad  long  ago.  Ujion 
a  substratum  of  fact,  stories  affecting  the 
cliaracter  of  one  person  in  particular  were 
built  uj<.  To  clear  these  away  is  one  of 
my  objerts  in  the  narrative  I  now  under- 
take. The  secret  springs  that  set  in  mo- 
tion mucli  that  seemed  inexplicable,  even  to 


my  closest  friends,  are  now,  for  the  first 
time,  laid  bare. 

But  these  memoirs  will  not  be  published 
until  one  who  plays  a  prominent  part  in 
them  is  no  more.  I  will  not  wound  the 
living ;  *  but  why  sliould  the  dead  fear  the 
truth  ?  What  reck  tliey  who  are  gone  to 
tlieir  last  account,  that  the  world  knows 
and  judges  their  misdeeds?  I  am  well 
aware  that  I  shall  be  blamed  :  the  step  I 
am  taking  will  be  resrarood  as  unnecessary 
by  some,  as  reprehensible  by  others  ;  but 
such  considerations  as  these  have  never  in- 
Huenced  me.  When  I  have  once  decided 
that  a  certain  course  is  justifiable,  the  opin- 
ion of  no  man  living  would  turn  me  from  it. 

I  was  born  on  the  last  day  of  June,  1835, 
at  Beaumanoir,  my  father,  Mr.  Penrud- 
docke's,  house  in  Dorsetshire.  He  and  my 
mother.  Lady  Rachel,  had  been  married 
four  years  at  that  time ;  and  their  only 
other  child,  Raymond,  was  three  years  my 
senior. 

No  two  boys  were  ever  more  dissimilar. 
My  brother  was  pale,  weakly,  and  beauti- 
ful ;  I  was  no  beauty,  but  ruddy  and  ro- 
bust. All  his  tastes  were  sedentary  ;  all 
mine  active.  He  had  a  remarkable  capa- 
city for  learning ;  I  was  incorrigibly  idle, 
and  could  hardly  read  at  nine  years  old. 
But  I  knew  every  fox-covert  and  eveiy 
rabbit-hole  on  the  estate  ;  while  Raymond 
could  nevQr  be  persuaded  to  mount  a 
pony,  and  shrank  from  tlie  report  of  a  gun. 

j\Iy  mother  loved  her  first-born  better 
than  any  thing  in  Ihh  world  :  but  her  af- 
fections were  supposed  to  be  chitifly  ab- 

*  I  have  bocn  careful  ti)  altor  the  names  of  pco- 
pie  and  places,  so  that  only  tlio  actors  themselves 
will  recognize  the  scenes  in  which  they  have  played 
parts.  — Ed. 


3 


775550 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


sorbed  by  another.  So  said  tlie  Rev.  Mr. 
Putney.  Of  Ua^uiond,  liuwever,  of  his 
beauty,  his  abilities,  his  unvarying  doeihty, 
she  was  coniessedly  proud  ;  and,  as  it  was 
not  in  her  nature  to  give  or  to  demand  any 
great  dL•nlon:^tralions  of  devotion,  liis  jilaeid 
temperament  suited  her  far  better  than  my 
impetuous  one.  I  remember  trying  to 
clamber  upon  her  knee,  and  being  gently, 
but  firmly,  set  upon  tlie  gi'ound  ;  and,  if  I 
atti,'in])ted  to  hug  her,  my  arms  were  (jui(;t- 
ly  disengaged,  and  I  was  dismissed  with, 
'•  I'here,  that  is  enough,  my  dear." 

On  the  other  hand,  I  was  my  father's 
f.ivorite.  He  it  was  who  taught  me  to  ride, 
wlio  look  me  out  fishing  and  shooting  with 
him,  wiio  came  into  tlie  schoolroom,  and 
begged  for  half-holidays  for  me,  who,  after 
his  own  fashion,  took  infinite  pains  to  in- 
struct me.  And  he  was  not  only  a  keen 
sportsman,  —  he  was  a  keen  lover  of  na- 
ture. He  knew  by  heart  the  haunts  and 
habits  of  every  bird  of  the  air,  every  fish  in 
the  deep  brown  pools  of  our  stream,  every 
inhabitant  of  the  woods,  from  gossamer- 
winged  moths  upwards.  He  was  not  a 
clever  man,  nor  a  worldly-wise  one,  —  apt 
to  set  business,  and  all  other  disagreeal)le 
subjects,  aside ;  prone  to  leave  things  to 
my  mother,  and  to  yield  to  her  decision  in 
nearly  every  case.  But  if  not  the  wisest, 
he  was  the  pleasantest,  the  kindest,  the 
cheeriest  of  mortals,  who  won  more  of  love 
pt'rhaps  than  i-espeet  while  he  lived,  but 
■was  not  the  less  regretted  when  he  died. 

1  was  then  twelve  years  old  :  it  was  my 
first  grief;  and  I  date  a  great  change  in 
myselt  ti-om  that  time.  I  "put  away  child- 
ish ihiiigs:"  I  grew  opinionated,  wilful, 
and  ii^patient  of  control.  My  father  had 
always  been  more  of  a  companion  to  me 
than  my  brother  could  ever  be ;  my  only 
friends  now  were  the  gamekeeper  and  the 
head-groom.  I  was  glad  when  my  mother 
told  me  I  was  to  go  to  school.  Raymond, 
on  account  of  his  health,  was  to  remain  at 
liome  until  the  time  should  come  for  him  to 
be  entered  at  Oxford. 

The  old  tutor,  who  had  so  efficiently  di- 
rected my  brother's  studies  hitherto,  had 
with  difli(;ulty  instilled  the  rudiments  of 
Latin  and  Greek  into  me.  I  ought  to  have 
been  sent  to  school  two  year^  before  ;  but 
whenever  my  mother  broached  the  subject, 
my  father  would  say,  — 

••  Oh !  time  enough  :  since  Ray  isn't  to 
go,  let  the  boys  remain  together  a  little 
longer." 

And,  as  my  father  could  always  keep  me 
in  order  when  my  tutor  failed,  my  mother 
had  yielded  the  point. 

But  now  things  were  difl'erent.  I  needed 
a  stronger  hand  than  old  Aldridge's  to  curb 
me,  a  stronger  incentive  to  the  mastery  of 


Greek  verbs  than  the  wearisome  iteration 
of  my  brother's  attainments.  The  com- 
pany of  grooms  and  keepers  was  perni- 
cious ;  the  contact  with  other  boys  would 
be  wholesome.  My  mother  wisely  saw  all 
this,  and  resolved  that  I  should  go  to  school 
forthwith.  Five  weeks  after  my  father's 
funeral,  I  was  sent  to  Doctor  P 's  fa- 
mous school  .at  East  Siiecn. 

As  I  have  absolutely  nothing  to  tell  of 
those  school-days,  which  extended  over  the 
next  lour  years,  1  will  take  this  opportu- 
nity to  speak  of  my  mother,  and  of  our 
family  connections,  on  both  sid«s,  some  of 
lliem  being  intricate,  and  demanding  a 
careful  ex[)lanalion. 

My  mother's  beauty  was  remarkable  — 
such  as  could  scarcely  f:\il  to  infiucnce  the 
judgments  of  those  who  came  under  its 
influence.  So  faultless  a  face  I  have  never 
seen  :  Grecian  in  its  purity  of  outline,  with 
eyes  more  sole  and  chastened  than  brilliant ; 
a  skin  like  alabaster;  the  lips,  perhaps,  a 
thought  too  thin.  She  was  tall,  and  her 
carriage  had  the  dignified  humility  of  an 
Esther  —  a  gentle  queenliness  that  accept- 
ed, as  a  matter  of  course,  all  the  homage  site 
received,  and  made  slaves  of  nearly  every 
one  who  approached  her.  Her  hand  was 
large,  but  well-formed,  and  always,  even  in 
the  hottest  summer  day,  as  cold  as  marfjle. 
Her  fieet  were  her  worst  point :  they  were 
undeniable  clumsy.  She  never  gave  in  to 
the  fashion  of  short  petticoats  :  her  garments 
were  always  long  and  trailing,  as  befitted 
so  majestic  a  woman. 

She  was  in  her  thirty-fourth  year  when 
my  father  died ;  but  neither  then,  nor  for 
many  a  long  day,  did  sorrow  or  anxiety  im- 
pair her  matchless  beauty.  Whatever  she 
may  have  felt,  it  was  in  her  nature  to  re- 
press all  emotion  ;  the  delicate  ivory  mask, 
which  time  neither  stained  nor  sharpened, 
testified  nothing.  Her  manner  was  the 
most  sell-contained  of  any  woman's  I  have 
known.  It  was  generally  difficult  to  tell 
what  she  thought,  felt,  or  meant  at  times 
when,  with  ordinary  women,  the  expression 
of  the  countenance  would  have  supplement- 
ed much  that  was  unuttered.  This  Sphinx- 
like calm  was  her  most  notable  character- 
istic to  a  casual  observer.  Even  when 
superficially  moved  by  laughter,  —  a  rare 
occurrence  with  her, — one  never  lost  the 
sense  of  remote  repose  underlying  it  Like 
a  lake  whose  surface  is  stirred  by  a  ripj)le,  it 
never  reached  the  mysterious  de])th  of  still- 
ness below. 

She  had  married  my  father  when  she  was 
seventeen;  and,  being  Lord  Berbrooke's 
si.\th  daughter,  I  apprehend  there  was  not 
much  choice  in  the  matter.  He  was  a  i)00r 
nobleman,  and  his  only  other  married  dauj;h- 
ters  had  made  but  sorry  matches.    Osmund 


PENRDDDOCKE. 


Penruddoc-ke  of  Beaumanoir,  with  £15,000 
a  yt-ar,  who  saw  her  at  her  first  county 
ball,  and  proposed  six  weeks  afterwards, 
was  not  hkely  to  be  rejected.  My  lather 
used  ji)kin'j:ly  to  say,  — 

"  1  should  never  have  had  you,  my  dear, 
if  you  had  ever  set  your  foot  in  Ahnacks." 

He  worshipped  her  with  a  blind  adora- 
tion; he  thought  that  the  world  did  not 
contain  a  woman  coiujjarable  to  his  wile  tor 
beauty  and  viji-tue  and  wisdom.  She  un- 
derstood him  ])erfectly,  and  made  him,  on 
the  whole,  very  happy.  She  never  gave 
him  cause  for  jealousy;  she  never  worried 
him  about  trifles  ;  she  managed  every  thing ; 
and,  though  wise  enough  not  to  assert  her 
supremacy  too  openly,  never  yielded  an 
inch  when  she  was  so  minded.  Under  her 
velvet  paw  were  powerful  claws;  and  she 
held  iiim  firmly  by  them. 

My  grandfather.  Lord  Berbrooke,  died 
when  I  was  a  child.  Between  his  eldest 
son  and  my  mother  there  was  no  great  cor- 
diality ;  but  her  next  brother,  Levison  Kich, 
was  often  at  Beaumanoir.  He  was  the 
scapegrace  of  the  family,  and  by  far  the 
pleasantest  of  them  all.  He  was  in  the 
Life  Guards,  and  a  man  of  fashion  ;  his  nor- 
mal condition  one  of  debt  ;  his  obligations 
to  my  father  frequent  and  consideraijle. 
To  this  fact  I  attribute  liis  constant  visits 
to  what  must  have  been  to  him  a  very  dull 
house,where  neither  gambling,  horse-racing, 
nor  smart  ladies  were  to  be  found. 

He  had  always  a  room  wiih  us,  and  he 
constantly  ran  down  for  two  or  three  days ; 
but  he  scorned  our  hum-drum  county 
society,  —  the  small-big  people  who  came  to 
stay  for  three  davs  :  he  used  to  supplicate 
my  mother  not  to  invite  them  whde  he  was 
at  Beaumanoir.  In  vain  she  tried  to  direct 
his  attentions  to  more  than  one  nicish  heir- 
ess, who  might,  peihaps,  have  consented  to  j 
be  the  humble  instrument  lor  retrieving  the 
handsome  I/evison'sfo.  tunes.  He  discussed 
their  •'  points,"  and  invariably  ended  by  de- 
clarin'j;  they  would  be  dear  at  the  money. 
I  always  liked  him  ;  though  —  it  is  aston- 
ishing how  early  that  sort  of  intuition  comes 
—  I  never  should  have  thought  of  going  to 
him  for  advice  in  any  serious  emergency. 
But  then  serious  emergencies  arise  but 
rarely  ;  whereas  the  decision  of  a  thorough 
man  of  the  world,  in  the  small  matters  of 
every  day,  is  not  without  its  value.  He  was 
not  clever ;  but  he  had  a  vast  and  varied  ex- 
perience of  what  was  "  the  right  thing  "  to 
be  done  —  fi-om  a  mvuidane  not  a  moral 
point  of  view,  be  it  well  understood  — 
undermost  circumstances;  and,  therefore, 
though  it  seemed  a  strange  contradiction, 
he  was  one  of  the  very  few  whose  o])inion 
my  mother  thought  worth  asking.  She  did 
not    always    follow  it.     She  knew  that  he 


had  been  foolish  in  the  conduct  of  liis  own 
affairs,  and  she  reprobated  the  lite  of  dissi- 
pation he  still  led  ;  still,  he  was  "  a  man  of 
the  world,"  which  neither  my  father  nor 
any  one  else  belonging  to  us  was  ;  and  she, 
who  combined  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent 
with  the  ostensible  innocency  of  the  dove, 
felt  that  (for  her  sons  especially^  the  views 
of  such  a  one  were  worth  hearing,  at  all 
events. 

It  is  essential  to  the  understanding  of  my 
story  that  I  sliould  give  a  brief  sketch  of 
the  Penruddocke  family,  beginning  with 
my  great-grandfatlie",  Iliuuphrey  Raymond 
Penruddocke  —  a  gentleman  who  commit- 
ted sundry  crimes,  lor  which  those  who  be- 
lieve in  vicarious  retribution,  may  hold  that 
some  of  his  descendants  have  been  punished 
in  the  third  and  fourth  generations,  since  the 
ohi  sinner  himself  died  [leaceably  in  his  bed. 

I  need  advert  but  to  one  of  liis  offences 
against  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  which  was 
fraught  with  grave  consequences  to  me,  and 
to  others  of  my  family.  Mr.  Penrud- 
docke eloped  with  the  wife  of  a  Capt. 
Dunstan,in  1762,  and  by  her  had  one  son. 
In  giving  birth  to  him,  not  many  months 
after  the  bill  for  her  divorce  had  passed  the 
House  of  Lords,  this  lady  died  ;  and  it  was 
questioned  whether  she  had  been  married 
to  my  great-grand liither  in  the  interval. 
The  fatlier  hated  his  son,  and  never  spoke 
of  him  as  his  legitimate  heir.  He  was 
brought  up  at  Beaumanoir,  it  is  true,  but 
treated  with  great  cruelty ;  and  having  a 
high  s]iirlt,  the  ([uarrels  between  him  and 
his  father  were  frequent,  until  in  liis  eigh- 
teenth year  he  ran  away,  —  it  was  supposed 
to  America,  —  and  all  trace  of  him  was 
lost.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life,  old  Mr. 
Penruddocke  was  reported  to  have  felt 
remorse  for  his  conduct,  and  to  have  ac- 
knowledged that  the  boy  had  been  born  in 
wedlock,  and  was,  consequently,  his  legiti- 
mate heir.  If  this  was  true,  it  was  probably 
not  known  to  more  than  two  persons,  and 
the  sincerity  of  his  repentance  could, not  be 
tested,  for  the  missing  man  never  appeared ; 
and,  at  my  great-grandfather's  death,  he 
was  succeeded  in  the  estate  by  his  eldest 
son  by  a  second  marriage.  This  son,  my 
irrandfather,  always  angrily  denied  the 
truth  of  his  half-brother's  legitimacy  ;  and, 
strange  to  say,  between  him  and  his  own 
younger  brother,  Osmund,  a  coolness  arose 
in  consequence.  The  latter  seems  to  have 
possessed  unusually  tenacious  alfections, 
and  clung  to  tlie  memory  of  the  ill-used 
Humphrey,  whom  he  had  loved  as  a  child. 
He  never  would  admit  that  his  father's  eld- 
est son  was  base-born  ;  he  never  would  be- 
lieve that  he  was  dead.  To  the  day  of  his 
own  death  Osmund  expected  the  missing 
Humphrey  to  return,  and  it   was  his  con- 


6 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


stantly  reminding  my  grandfather  of  tlie 
insecure  tenure  of  the  estate,  which  es- 
tranged the  two  brothers. 

Tlie  son  of  this  great  uncle  of  mine, 
Humphrey  JMark  Penrucklooke,  has  phvyed 
wliat  I  may  term  a  sub-prominent  ])art  in 
mv  life;  yet  I  never  sa»v  him  till  I  was 
eighteen.  My  fatiier  held  no  connnunica- 
tion  with  his  cousin.  There  had  been  no 
quarrel ;  but  the  coolness  wliich  had  sub- 
sisted between  their  respective  fathers  had 
frozen  into  a  wall  of  ice  between  the  sons. 
Humphrey  Mark  was  an  old  bachelor  of 
independent  means  at  the  time  I  first  saw 
him.  He  had  been  educated  for  the 
bar;  had  even  "eaten  his  dinners;"  but 
lie  had  never  held  a  brief  He  was  said 
to  resemble  his  fiither  in  many  ways, — 
tenacious  in  his  fancies,  im])lacable  in  his 
resentments ;  a  man  who  had  made  few 
friendships  in  the  course  of  a  long  life. 
He  ha<l  one  niece,  as  will  be  seen  by  the 
familv  diagram,  which  I  insert  to  make  our 


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respective  relations  clearer;  but  he  had 
conceived  a  great  dislike  to  Mrs.  Hamleigh, 
and  had  not  seen  her  for  many  years,  so 
that  he  cut  himself  off  from  the  -only  close 
tie  he  possessed.  The  widow,  whose  desire 
to  conquer  the  prejudice  she  knew  existed 
against  her  was  perhaps  not  wholly  dis- 
interested, failed  in  every  eiibrt  to  ai)proach 
her  old  uncle.  She  belonged  to  our  fac- 
tion, and  he  would  have  none  of  her. 

]\Irs.  Hamleigh  lived  in  a  small  cottage, 
forty  miles  distant  from  us,  in  the  New 
Forest.  Circumstances  had  thrown  her 
and  my  father  together  in  early  life ;  and, 
after  Ids  marriage,  she  became  my  mother's 
most  intimate  friend  and  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer. Was  she  a  toady  ?  I  often  thought 
so  then,  and  in  after-years,  when  her  sub- 
servience to  Lady  Rachel  angered  me 
past  all  patience.  But  I  now  lielieve  her 
worship  of  my  mother  to  have  been  a  gen- 
uine feelinj,  due  to  the  ascendencv  of  a 
strong  intellect  and  will  over  a  weak  and 
amiable,  though  obstinate  nature.  This, 
and  her  devotion  to  her  only  child,  were 
the  two  sentiments  that  leavened  her  whole 
existence.  Perhaps  the  secret  of  the  bond 
that  united  the  two  kinswomen  lay  iu  the 
unlikeness  of  their  characters.  However 
this  may  be,  my  mother,  would  have  the 
Hamleighs  at  Beaumanoir,  when  she  would 
ask  no  one  —  not  even  her  own  sisters.  How 
far  she  confided  in  her  "  dear  Belinda,"  I 
am  unable  to  say  ;  but  one  thing  is  certain, 
she  confided  in  no  one  else  so  much. 

In  pei'son,  Mrs.  Hamleigh  was  tall  and 
slight.  But  for  her  teeth  she  would  have 
been  pretty.  Not  that  they  were  otherwise 
than  white  and  even  ;  but  they  were  too 
large  ;  and  in  the  smile  which  sat  habitual- 
ly upon  her  face,  the  gums  were  constantly 
visible,  in  a  way  which  was  extremely  dis- 
agreeable to  me.  I  remember,  as  a  child, 
having  seen  the  picture  of  a  wild  cat  grin- 
ning, which  I  thought  was  like  Mrs.  Ham- 
leigh ;  and  I  could  never  dispossess  my 
mind  of  the  image.  I  used  to  watch  her 
mouth  with  a  sort  of  curious  fascination, 
and  wonder  how  much  more  of  it  I  should 
be  able  to  see  this  time.  Her  manner,  too, 
was  worrvins; ;  fraught  with  an  i"-noble 
assiduity  to  please  every  one,  but  chiefly 
my  mother,  which  led  her  to  assent  to  al- 
most every  proposition  that  was  advanced. 

In  short,  Mrs.  Hamleigh  was  never  a 
favorite  of  mine  as  a  boy,  and  but  for  my 
intense  love  for  Evelyn,  I  fear  I  should 
often  have  been  rude  to  her  mother.  Her 
devotion  to  her  child,  I  am  bound  to  admit, 
was  untiring  :  in  that  one  relation  of  life 
she  was  beyond  all  praise.  Too  poor  to 
afford  a  governess,  the  manner  in  which 
she  slaved  to  supply  this  need  for  her 
daughter    the  weary  evenings    she  spent 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


over  French  lessons  that  were  to  be  taught 
the  next  niorninpj,  the  terrible  hours  over 
Cramer's  Exercises,  when  she  I'elt  as 
though  her  head  would  split,  and  yet  nev- 
er give  in,  —  all  this  deserved  the  recogni- 
tion it  met  with  at  her  little  daughter's 
hands.  Evelyn  knew  that  she  was  her 
mother's  first  object  in  life,  for  whom  she 
was  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice ;  and  she 
repaid  this  devotion  by  the  tender  thought- 
fulness  whereby  she  tried  to  lighten  her 
mother's  burthens. 

She  was  a  slight  little  creature,  with 
eyes  like  a  fawn,  large  and  wistful,  and 
lashes  some  shades  darker  than  her  abun- 
dant light  brown  hair.  She  had  not  high 
spirits ;  except  when  with  me,  she  was  al- 
most unnaturally  quiet  and  silent  for  her 
age.  And  she  was  not  clever:  of  her  even 
a  doting  parent  could  record  no  smart  say- 
ing, no  wonderi'ul  mnemonic  achievement. 
But  she  had  very  strong  affections ;  and, 
under  her  gentle  and  timid  exterior,  possess- 
ed a  reserve-fund  of  strength  and  tenacity 
remarkable  in  a  girl  of  fourteen.  Her  likes 
and  dislikes,  though  seldom  openly  pro- 
nounced, were  not  the  less  decided. 

There  was  three  years'  difference  be- 
tween us,  and  sinee  infancy  we  had  been 
playmates.  I  loved  her  better  than  any 
thing  in  the  world:  all  my  present  joys,  all 
my  future  hopes  and  ambition,  centred  in 
her.  When  she  was  at  Beaumanoir,  we 
two  were  constantly  together.  Raymond 
considered  our  amusements  beneath  him, 
and  rarely  joined  us.  He  walked  out  with 
Mr.  Aldridge,  when  they  discussed  zoolo- 
gy, hydrostatics,  and  other  light  and  airy 
suijjects  ;  while  I  took  out  my  bag  of  fer- 
rets into  the  sandy  rabbit-warren,  under 
the  old  Scotch  firs,  Evelyn  watching  my 
exploits  with  a  halt-lrightened  curiosity ; 
or  flogged  the  patient  stream,  while  she  sat 
beside  me  on  the  bank,  fragrant  with 
meadow-sweet;  or  went  a  nutting  with  my 
little  companion  down  crooked  dingles, 
where  the  overhanging  branches  nearly 
touched  our  heads. 

I  told  her  horrible  stories  that  made  her 
hair  to  stand  on  end ;  1  drew  for  her  mar- 
vellous pictures  of  robbers,  and  distressed 
damsels,  and  a  rescuing  knight  (who  was 
always  supposed  to  be  myself)  ;  I  retailed 
descriptions  that  I  read  in  books  of  travel 
of  the  wonders  of  the  deep ;  and  then,  in 
imagination,  we  voyaged  together,  and 
discovered  lands  beyond. the  seas,  and  even 
went  the  length  (after  a  little  faint  remon- 
strance from  Evelyn)  of  being  wrecked 
upon  a  desert  island,  like  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia. Of  course  I  am  describing  the 
amusements  of  our  actual  childhoocl,  not 
of  the  tiuie  when  1  returned  from  school,  a 
youth  of  seventeen. 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  house  at  Beaumanoir  has  now  been 
so  much  altered  that  those  who  remember 
its  dear,  dull  old  face  a  few  years  since, 
would  fail  to  recognize  it ;  but  its  noble 
position  remains  unchanged.  The  sea  of 
timber,  and  the  lake  through  which  the 
trout-stream  runs,  the  Vale  of  Blackmore 
in  the  distance,  belted  with  blue  hills  on 
the  horizon,  —  the  eye  still  sees  all  this 
from  the  portico,  beyond  the  lawn  and 
gravel  sweep  ;  and  the  heart  of  man  can 
desire  nothing  to  "  improve  "  it.  The  wild 
downs  rise  behind  the  house,  the  stumpy 
little  tower  of  the  church  is  seen  among 
the  shrubs  that  mask  the  garden  to  the 
right ;  the  stables  and  a  long  line  of  out- 
houses  stretch,  tailwise,  to  the  left. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing,  the 
exterior  was,  no  doubt,  ugly  in  the  eyes  of 
those  who  were  critical  in  architecture.  A 
plainer  frontage  of  gray  stone,  unrelieved 
by  architrave,  cornice,  or  balustrade,  was 
never  seen.  Eight  holes  pierced  in  the 
wall,  ran  along  the  bedroom  floor,  above 
which  no  roof  was  visible ;  only  two  stacks 
of  chimneys.  Under  it  was  the  portico  in 
the  centre,  and  three  windows  on  either 
side.  The  garden  front  had  not  even  the 
portico  to  break  its  monotony ;  a  shoi-t 
flight  of  steps  led  from  one  of  the  drawing- 
rooms  to  the  lawn,  which  was  intersected 
with  serpentine  walks,  masses  of  rhodo- 
dendron, and  queer-shaped  flower-knots, 
after  the  taste  of  the  beginning  of  this  cen- 
tury. 

The  interior  of  the  house  was  comfort- 
able but  not  very  large.  We  had  only 
eight  spare  bedrooms ;  yet  even  these 
were  rarely  filled.  There  were  not  many 
whom  my  mother  cared  to  invite,  except 
from  motives  of  obligation  or  expediency. 
Her  grooves  were  narrow  ;  she  cared  little 
for  general  society,  which,  considering  the 
admiration  her  beauty  never  failed  to  elicit, 
was  a  matter  of  wonderment  to  many.  So 
the  house  amply  sufficed  for  her  require- 
ments. There  were  big  dinners  in  the 
great  dining-room,  periodically  (we  habit- 
ually used  the  breakfast-room  when  alone), 
and  the  covers  were  taken  off  the  crimson 
satin  in  the  drawing-room,  on  such  occa- 
sions. We  slipped  about  on  glazed  chintz, 
when  we  sat  there  every  evening,  with  our 
books,  round  the  table,  my  father  snoring 
by  the  fire,  my  mother's  fingers  moving 
with  exquisite  precision  over  some  fine  era- 
broidery.  I  was  the  only  member  of  the 
family  who  was  ever  disposed  to  be  garru- 
lous ;  and  I  did  not  meet  with  much  en- 
couragement. 

What  else  shall  I  say  of  the  interior  ? 


8 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


My  own  bedroom  I  shall  have  to  speak  of 
by  and  by.  The  library,  where  so  many 
happy  hours  '^ere  passed,  with  a  man  who 
holds  a  prominent  plaee  in  these  pa'^es  ; 
and  the  hall,  lined  with  stuffed  birds  in 
glass  eases,  its  walls  adorned  with  barbaric 
implements  of  war,  and  the  gigantic  horns 
of  elks  (the  spoils  of  my  grandfather  in 
foreign  lands),  —  these  were  my  favorite 
rooms.  In  the  latter,  was  a  billiard-table, 
and  we  played  —  Evelyn  and  1  —  at  battle- 
dore and  shuttlecock  on  wet  days  in  the 
holidays. 

Soon  after  I  left  home,  my  mother  began 
to  think  that  Raymond  was  "  getting  be- 
yond Mr.  Aldridge."  He  was  not  a  man 
calculated  to  enlarge  the  mind  of  a  lad 
brought  up  like  my  brother.  His  intellect 
reminded  me  of  a  tightly-packed  drawer  ; 
the  learning  stowed  away  there  was  so 
compressed  as  to  have  lost  all  power  of  ex- 
pansion ;  layer  upon  layer  of  facts,  crushed 
flat,  and  no  room  for  a  deduction,  or  an 
orio-inal  idea.  He  stated :  he  never  dis- 
cussed,  or  doubted,  or  theorized. 

My  mother  was  too  clever  not  to  see  that 
it  would  be  well  to  transfer  her  favorite 
son  to  the  care  of  a  tutor  of  more  mental 
vigor,  and  conversational  delightfulness. 
Uncle  Levison  had  hinted  that  her  dar- 
ling was  "  a  prig."  Might  not  some  little 
failing  in  this  direction  be  due  to  his  be- 
wigged  old  tutor?  So  two  gentlemen  in 
succession  came,  who,  either  in  tact,  or 
ability,  or  submission  to  Lady  Rachel,  were 
found  wanting.  Neither  of  them  remained 
three  months.  Then  it  was,  one  morning 
in  my  holidays,  that,  coming  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, I  heard  my  mother  say  to  Mrs. 
Hamleigh,  — 

"  It  is  impossible  to  speak  more  highly 
than  Lord  Wylde  does  of  this  person." 

"  Lord  Wilde  is  a  —  hm  !  —  eh,  dear  ?  " 

"  A  Catholic  ?  Yes  ;  and  so  is  this  Mr. 
Francis." 

"  That  is  —  hm !  —  a  disadvantage.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  „ 

"  1  do  not  think  it  of  much  importance. 
I  shall,  of  course,  interdict  the  subject  of 
religion  ;  and  Mr.  Putney  will  look  after 
Ray's  theology." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  —  Mr.  Putney  ;  —  I  forgot ; 
and  the  dear  boy  is  so  far  beyond  his 
years  !  You  are  right,  dear ;-  it  is  of  no  im- 
portance, in  this  case." 

"  I  do  not  say  it  is  of  no  importance, 
Belinda.  You  know  my  own  strong  feel- 
ings about  Papistry.  But  the  testimonials 
in  this  man's  favor  are  so  exceptional,  —  he 
is  described  as  so  very  remarkable  and  de- 
lightful a  person,  —  that,  after  all  the 
trouble  and  difficulty  I  have  had,  I  feel 
tempted  to  overlook  the  one  drawback." 

"  The  one  drawback,  —  exactly    so.      I 


quite  feel  as  j'ou  do,  dear.  There  can  be 
no  danger  of  dear  Ray's  going  over  while 
his  sweet  mother  is  at  hand.  No  Mr. 
Francis's  influence  could  be  as  great  as 
yours." 

"  I  think  his  ideas  are  settled,"  said  my 
mother  calmly ;  '•  but  of  course,  I  shall 
be  vigilant.  He  takes  after  me,  and  1  have 
no  taste  for  polemical  discussion.  No  Rich 
ever  changed  his  religion ;  and  Ray  is 
more  of  a  Rich  than  a  Penruddocke." 

I  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
and  they  had  not  heeded  my  entry.  1 
wondered  a  good  deal,  what  this  Mr.  Fran- 
cis would  be  like.  Never,  to  my  know- 
ledge, having  seen  a  member  of  the  Church 
of  Rome,  and  my  ideas  being  gathered 
mainly,  from  Foxe's  "  Book  of  Martyrs," 
and  a  religious  '•  tale  for  the  young,"  in 
which  a  saturnine  Jesuit  played  a  most 
corrosive  part,  1  pictured  a  dark-eyed,  lan- 
tern-jawed man,  listening  behind  doors, 
and  stealthily  disseminating  his  abomin- 
able doctrines. 

He  came,  and  I  could  scarcely  believe 
my  eyes.  My  brother's  new  tutor  had  a 
face  full  of  strength  and  pleasantness,  a 
spare,  firmly-knit  frame  ;  words  well-chos- 
en, without  pedantry;  manners  highly 
courteous,  without  servility.  He  was 
under  fifty,  and  might  still  be  called  hand- 
some ;  but  the  strong-curling  hair  above 
his  massive  brow  was  iron-gray.  He  had 
kindly  eyes,  which  never  appeared  to  be 
penetrating,  and  yet  which  saw  every 
tiling  above  and  below  the  surface  ;  though 
in  society,  it  sometimes  annoyed  me  that 
he  seemed  purposely  to  abstain  ti'om  using 
them.  He  would  look  down  upon  his  plate, 
or- at  the  wall  opposite,  for  ten  minutes  at 
a  time,  when  at  the  table  conversation  was 
going  on,  in  which  he  was  not  called  upon 
to  bear  a  part.  But  before  he  had  been 
in  the  house  a  fortnight,  I  felt  more  drawn 
towards  this  new  inmate  than  I  had  ever 
felt  towards  a  man  before.  Though  I 
could  not  argue  out  my  convictions,  I  had 
acute  perceptions  for  a  lad  of  my  age.  I 
watched  him,  I  listened  to  him,  and  I  pro- 
nounced him  to  be  a  "brick."  The  more 
I  saw  of  him,  the  more  was  the  impression, 
that  he  was  not  only  a  delightful,  but  a 
wise  and  good  man  confirmed.  1  noted 
the  admirable  tact  wherewith  he  avoided 
giving  needless  offence,  as  men  of  less 
delicate  intellectual  fibre,  and  of  less  sound 
judgment,  would  have  done ;  how  often, 
like  David,  he  held  his  peace,  even  from 
good  words,  until  directly  appealed  to. 
Then  he  never  hesitated.  Though  his 
opinion  ran  directly  counter  to  my  moth- 
er's, even  to  the  length  of  holding  for  un- 
just  some  act  of  hers,  he  gave  it  straight- 
tbrwardly,  and  without  compromise;  and 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


his  influence,  therefore,  over  her  soon  grew 
to  be  remark;>l)l(^  I  :iin  not  quite  sure 
that  she  liked  hiui ;  but  he  was  the  only 
man  whose  approval  I  ever  saw  her  take 
great  pains  to  secure.  Every  one  else 
bowed  down  to  her,  —  Mr.  Francis  did  not. 
Had  he  made  tlie  least  eilbrt  to  lessen  the 
respectful  distance  between  them,  his 
power  would  have  been  gone.  But  in  nay 
mother's  presence  he  was  always  more  re- 
served than  at  other  times.  It  was  then 
that  I  chiefly  noticeil  the  lowered  eyelids, 
an  abstraction  which  I  grew  to  understand 
as  indicating  the  rigid  line  he  had  marked 
for  himself  on  entering  the  house.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  said,  "  I  am  your  sou's 
tutor,  and  you  are  a  proud  woman,  —  I 
know  my  exact  position.  With  my  boys  I 
expand  ;  here  I  cannot.  Call  upon  me  for 
intbrraation,  or  for  an  opinion,  show  me, 
unmistakably,  that  you  wish  me  to  take 
part  in  your  conversation,  and  I  will  do  so, 
—  never  otherwise." 

Who  that  knows  a  country  neighbor- 
hood can  fail  to  suppose  that  there  were 
not  wanting  good-natured  persons  to  sug- 
gest that  Lady  Rachel  Penruddocke  would 
end  by  marrying  her  son's  tutor  ?  He  was 
so  good-looking,  so  gentlemanlike,  and  so 
charming,  how  could  she  do  otherwise  ? 
They  little  knew  her;  and  hini  they  knew 
less.  In  his  youth  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
had  loved  and  suffered  ;  but  that  was  a 
tale  of  the  past.  It  was  no  longer  in  wo- 
man's power  to  inthrall  Iiim  ;  and  the  possi- 
bility, had  such  existed,  of  captivating  a 
great  lady,  would  have  presented  to  him 
no  attractions.  He  read  my  mother,  as  I 
now  know,  through  and  through;  but  he 
judged  her,  as  he  did  ail  women,  with  foi'- 
bearance. 

A  circumstance  occurred  one  Christmas 
holidays  which  forcibly  illustrates  the  char- 
acters and  relative  positions  of  these  two 
persons. 

Certain  donations  of  beef  and  blankets, 
red  cloaks  and  groceries,  were  given  out 
by  my  mother  every  Christmas  Day,  with 
much  ceremony,  to  some  fifty  old  women, 
and  other  poor.  This  had  been*  called, 
ever  since  I  could  remember,  "  Lady  Rach- 
el's Bounty."  The  sum  expended  each 
year  was  seventy  pounds  ;  and  it  was  under- 
stood to  come  from  my  mother's  privy  purse. 
There  was  a  dinner  in  the  hall  to  the 
school-children  ;  and  another  elsewhere  for 
all  the  well-conducted  laborers  in  the  pai'- 
ish.  The  rector  nominally  selected  the 
recipients  of  this  "  bounty  ;  "  but,  of  all  my 
mother's  slaves,  Mr.  Putney  was  the  most 
abject;  and  her  prejudices  he  invariably 
indorsed.  Now,  as  she  went  a  great  deal 
about  the  village,  walking  into  cottages 
without  knocking,  and  demanding,  in  her 


silvery  voice,  imperative  questions  which 
the  good  wives,  perhaps,  did  not  always 
care  to  answer,  it  came  about  that  she  had 
favorites,  and  those  against  whose  names 
she  set  a  black  mark.  It  used  to  make  me 
mad  to  see  a  plausible,  mealy-mouthed  old 
woman,  like  Mrs.  Houndsfield,  whose  two 
sons  never  did  a  day's  work  when  they 
could  help  it,  get  a  share  of  the  loaves  and 
fishes;  while  poor  Bill  Strutt,  who  was 
one  of  our  best  laborers,  and  whose  young 
wife  was  brought  to  bed  regularly  once  a 
year,  got  nothing,  because  he  had  a  rough 
way  of  answering,  and  had  once  resented 
some  interference  of  my  mother's.  But 
the  rector  declared  he  drank  (he  had  once 
been  rather  festive  at  a  harvest-home,  I 
believe),  and,  "  for  the  sake  of  example," 
it  was  held  necessary  to  deprive  his  wife  of 
the  good  things  she  saw  distributed  around 
her. 

Now,  Mr.  Francis  had  a  taste  for  archae- 
ology, and   for   examining   folios  of  musty 
documents,  many  of  them  appertaining  to 
county  histories,  to  genealogies,  and  other 
family  records,  with  which  a  corner  of  the 
library  at  Beaumanoir  was  filled.     No  one, 
to  my  knowletlge,  until  he  came,  had  ever 
pulled  out  one  of  those  old  tomes  from  their 
shelf.     In  papers  relating  to  the  Penrud- 
docke property,  wherein  various  acquire- 
ments and  behests  were   <luly  set  forth,  it 
seems  that  he  came  upon  one  which  stated, 
that,  in  1710,  Dame  Elinor  Penrudilocke 
beqiicathed  the  sum  of  seventy  pounds,  to 
he  distributed  among  the  poor  of  the  par- 
ish each  Christmas  Day.     Her  effigy,  good 
soul,    stared   at  us,  from   under   its  mon- 
strous canopy  of  marble,  every  Sunilay  in 
church.     Why  had  her  name  been  suffered 
to  drop  into  oblivion,  and  my  mother's  been 
suljstituted  ?     Mr.  Putney,  of  course,  knew 
how  inalienable,  and  independent   of  the 
reigning  lady's  will  and  pleasure,  was  this 
legacy ;  but   he  had  been  rector  here  five 
and  twenty  years,  during  which  I  am  sure 
he  had  never  been  so  indiscreet  as  to  hint 
at  the  possession  of  such  knowledge.     The 
"  oldest  inhabitants  "  knew,  that,  as  long  aa 
they  could  remember,  "  the  lady  "  had  dis- 
tributed  her  largesse  at  Christmas ;  and, 
no  doubt,  they  regarded  it  in  some  sort  as 
their   right,  but  still  one  dependent  upon 
the   liberality  of  the  existing  mistress  of 
Beaumanoir.     Now,    as    Mr.   Francis  had 
discovered,  such  was  clearly  not  the  case; 
but  it  was  no  business  of  his;  and,  but  lor 
the  circumstance  I  am  about  to  relate,  it 
would  never  have  transpired. 

There  had  been  a  disturbance  in  the 
parish,  arising  out  of  a  rick  of  ours  being 
set  on  fire,  one  5th  of  November,  as  I 
always  believed,  accidentally  from  a  bon- 
fire.    My  mother,  Mr.  Putney,  and  all  her 


10 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


courtiers,  hoTvever,  took  an  opposite  view  : 
it  was  a  malicious  act,  and  they  left  no 
stone  unturned  to  discover  the  delinquent. 
Then  was  the  jiarish  divided  aixainst  itself; 
then  ensueil  accusations  and  recriminations, 
open  (juarrels  and  underhand  tale-bearing  ; 
and  it  was  during  this  state  of  things  that, 
just  at  the  beginning  of  my  Christmas  holi- 
days, the  following  little  s<'ene  took  place 
at  luncheon.  Mr.  rutney  had  been  read- 
ing Paley  with  Ray  that  morning,  and  so 
chanced  to  be  present. 

''  Have  youseen  \\'illiam  Strutt?  "  asked 
my  mother.  "  Does  he  still  continue  obsti- 
nately to  decline  to  give  any  account  of 
himself  on  the  night  of  the  fifth  V  " 

"  1  am  sorry  to  say  he  does,"  replied  the 
rector,  with  almost  a  groan;  ''and  I  am 
told  he  speaks  of  your  ladyship  in  the  most 
unbeconung  way,  declaring  that  he  is  not 
bound  to  account  for  his  time  to  you,  or  to 
n?.e,  or  to  any  one.  It  is  very  grievous.  I 
am  afraid  there  can  be  no  doubt  lie  is 
inixed  up  in  this  scandalous  aflt'air." 

"  It's  not  fair  to  condemn  a  fellow  with- 
out proof,"  I  struck  in. 

"  Be  quiet,  Osmund,"  and  my  mother 
looked  at  me  with  a  mild  severity.  "  At 
all  events,  Mr.  Putney,  as  long  as  the  de- 
linquents in  this  affair  are  screened,  I 
shall  not  consider  myself  justified  in  doing 
what  I  have  hitherto  done  at  Christmas." 

'•  Certainly,  Lady  Rachel,  without  doubt. 
After  all  your  ladyship  has  done  for  them, 
such  black  ingratitude  passes  my  compre- 
hension. They  all  declare  they  know 
nothing,  —  at  least,  it  is  most  difficult  to 
bring  it  liome  to  them  "  — 

"It  may  be  difiicult,"  said  my  mother 
slowly,  "  but  it  must  be  done.  I  have  it 
from  several  sources  that  the  men  are  known 
who  fired  my  rick.  Until  their  names  are 
given  up,  I  shall  restrict  my  customary 
'  bounty '  to  those  who  have  shown  a  real 
regard  for  my  interests.  This  state  of  the 
parish  —  drunkenness,  quarrelling,  incen- 
diarism—  is  really  disgraceful.  I  am  sure 
you  will  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Francis,"  — 
and  she  turned  her  beautiful  eyes  to  him,  — 
"  that  I  ought  to  mark  my  sense  of  disap- 
proval at  this  season  by  less  indiscriminate 
donations  V  " 

My  brotlier's  tutor  paused. 

"  If  you  appeal  to  me,  Lady  Rachel,  I 
must  ask  whether  you  are  a  free  agent  in 
this  matter?     I  fancy  not." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  —  of  course  I 
am," — my  mother  here  flushed  slightly. 
•'  I  ask  your  opinion  as  to  whether  circum- 
stances like  these  ought  not  to  aifect  my 
customary  charities." 

"  Your  ladyship's  private  charities  —  yes. 
But  '  Dame  Elinor's  Bounty,'  unless  I  am 
mistaken,  cannot  be  withheld.     Mr.   Put- 


ney has  no  choice  but  to  see  that  seventy 
poiuids  are  expended  upon  the  poor  of  his 
parish." 

The  rector  looked  positively  alarmed  at 
the  tutor's  audacity.  He  bent  over  his 
plate,  and  made  an  unnecessary  clatter 
with  his  knife  and  fork.  My  mother  gave 
a  short,  dry  cough ;  but  she  was  not  dis- 
concerted. After  a  moment  or  two  slie 
said,  with  measured  calmness,  — 

"  Of  course  the  money  would  be  givea 
sooner  or  later.  The  question  is,  whether 
I  should  not  rightly  withhold  a  portion  of 
it  for  a  time.  I  conceive  I  am  perfectly 
justified  in  doing  that?" 

She  waited,  I  am  sure,  to  see  if  he  would 
reply  ;  but,  with  his  customary  reticence, 
Mr.  Francis  forbore  from  further  remark. 
He  had  been  directly  appealed  to  ;  and 
the  words  extracted  from  him  were  all  that, 
in  conscience,  he  felt  bound  to  utter.  Mr. 
Putney,  with  his  mouth  full  of  ale  and  po- 
tatoes, tried  to  say  something,  I  believe ; 
but  no  one  listened  :  and  then  my  mother 
rose,  swept  the  crumbs  from  her  lap,  and, 
with  her  wonted  meek  dignity,  led  the  way 
to  the  drawing-room. 

Never  again  was  there  any  talk  of  her 
"  bounty  "  being  curtailed  ;  and,  somehow 
or  otlier,  the  next  day  she  had  grown  to 
regard  the  parish  delinquencies  with  more 
leniency. 

It  was  after  this  that  I  observed  indica- 
tions, at  times,  of  my  mother's  being  a  little 
afraid  of  Mr.  Francis,  though  she  showed 
no  resentment  at  his  conduct  on  this  partic- 
ular occasion.  She  recognized  the  full  worth 
of  his  uncompromising  character ;  and, 
though  her  personal  satisfaction  in  his  soci- 
ety may  not  have  increased,  she  was  too 
clever,  too  conscious  of  the  value  of  such  a 
companion  for  Raymond,  not  to  submit  to 
some  discomfort  for  tlie  sake  of  retaining 
this  advantage.  That  there  was  sacrifice  in 
this,  none  will  deny ;  for  can  discomfort  be 
greater  to  a  woman  like  my  mother  than 
that  of  living  in  the  daily  presence  of  one 
who  will  not  submit  to  be  blinded  ? 

My  brother's  abilities  were  really  great 
in  a  certain  line ;  but  the  reflective  powers 
were  stunted,  and,  to  the  enlargement  of 
these,  Mr.  Francis  devoted  his  attention. 
He  was  not  contented  with  Greek  Alchaics, 
and  the  classification  of  geological  speci- 
mens :  he  tried  to  make  my  brother  think  ; 
and  this  was  not  eas}^  Raymond  had  one 
of  those  minds  which  learn  and  retain,  ac- 
cept what  has  been  so  taken  in  as  proved 
beyond  dispute,  and  strike  no  new  thoughts 
for  themselves.  He  was  dogmatic  and  ob- 
stinate, like  all  such  natures :  my  mother 
had  said  rightly  that  "  his  ideas  were  set- 
tled." Had  Mr.  Francis  been  a  second  St. 
Augustine,  I  doubt  if  he  could  have  changed 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


11 


their  current,  or  kindled  in  him  one  spark 
of  religious  enthusiasm.  To  become  a  con- 
vert, there  must  be  some  restless  longint;, 
unsatisfied  within  the  pale  of  tliat  church 
where  the  soul,  tossed  with  doubt-,  is  vainly 
struggling ;  but  Raymond  was  incapable 
of  doubts  or  longings.  As  it  was,  however, 
the  subject  of  creed  was  one  his  tutor 
always  carefully  avoided.  When  I,  who 
was  much  more  impressionable,  came  under 
Mr.  Francis's  influence,  it  was  years  before 
he  ever  permitted  me  to  approach  the 
topic.  INIy  mother  had  early  satisfied  her- 
self upon  this  point ;  and  she  felt  that  if  Ray- 
mond's character  was  ever  to  be  formed,  so 
as  to  fit  him  tor  the  prominent  position  in 
the  county  he  was  destined  to  fill,  no  one 
was  so  well  calculated  as  Mr.  Francis  to 
arouse  a  healthy  ambition  in  him,  and  in- 
fuse the  life-blood  of  energetic  purpose  into 
veins  that  seemed  to  be  prematurely  dry. 

There  is  no  use  in  mincing  the  matter 
—  I  never  loved  my  brother;  our  natures, 
from  first  to  last,  were  antagonistic.  I  used 
to  do  all  manner  of  things  to  try  and 
aggravate  him  ;  if  I  could  only  once  have 
got  him  into  a  good  rage,  I  should  have 
liked  him  better  forever  after  ;  but  he  sel- 
dom expressed  any  personal  liking  or  dis- 
like, and  was  never  aroused,  unawares, 
into  rapture  or  reprobation.  He  had  my 
mother's  sweet  smile,  and  the  same  meas- 
ured way  of  speaking.  Indeed,  he  was 
very  like  her  in  face,  though  less  well-look- 
ing. Cold  blue  eyes,  and  a  thin,  straight- 
lipped  mouth  destroyed  the  attractiveness 
of  a  handsome  outline  ;  and,  though  tall, 
he  was  ill-made,  with  large  hips  and  slop- 
ing shoulders.  Of  course  he  was  awfully 
well-behaved  ;  even  in  the  nursery  he  never 
had  been  known  to  do  any  thing  that  was 
wrong  ;  and  now,  by  my  mother's  satellites, 
he  was  spoken  of  as  a  model  of  all  the  vir- 
tues. To  that  negative  morality  which 
consists  in  a  blameless  life,  where  there  is 
no  temptation,  he  could,  indeed,  lay  claim  ; 
and,  inasmuch  as  he  would  never  have  to 
battle  with  strong  passions,  the  probabili- 
ties were  that  his  career  at  Oxford  would 
be  as  exemplary  as  his  boyhood  had  hith- 
erto been. 

The  rector,  who  regarded  me  as  a  child 
of  Belial,  was  one  of  Raymond's  most 
devoted  flatterers. 

"  1  cannot  but  grieve,  my  young  friend," 
he  said  to  me  one  day,  "  to  see  how  frivo- 
lous are  all  your  amusements.  Now,  there 
is  your  brother,  —  it  is  really  quite  deliirht- 
ful  to  be  with  him,  —  so  elevated  in  all  his 
tastes,  so  very  superior  a  youth  in  every 
respect." 

"  Ray  will  do  all  the  superior  business 
of  the  family,  Mr.  Putney.  Being  the 
eldest,  it's  right  he  should." 


"  T  cannot  but  say  it  is  fortunate  that 
the  responsfibilities  of  this  great  pro])erty 
will  not  devolve  upon  you,  Osmund," 
sighed  the  rector.  "  What  does  the  poet 
say  V  —  '  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest.'  It  is 
not  made  up  of  ferreting  and  fox-hunting 
and  so  forth." 

"  No,"  said  I,  as  I  climbed  a  column  of 
the  veranda,  jerking  my  sentences  down 
upon  the  rector,  while  I  swung  my  legs 
about,  "  I  wish  it  was :  there's  lessons 
and  all  manner  of  bosh.  No,  life  ain't  all 
a  good  run,  without  a  check." 

"  The  check  comes  Avhen  we  least  expect 
it,"'  groaned  Mr.  Putney.  "  Ah,  Osmund  ! 
we  should  none  of  us  forget  that  we  are 
but  worms." 

"  But  even  the  worm  will  turn,"  I  cried, 
striking  out  my  legs  in  the  direction  of  his 
shovel-hat.  "  Preaching  is  like  treading 
on  me  —  I  can't  stand  much  of  it,  ]Mr.  Put- 
ney —  beg  your  pardon  —  look  out  tor  your 
head  —  I'm  coming  down." 

He  shook  his  dull  old  pate  at  me  with 
an  ostentatious  sigh,  and  went  straightway 
to  my  mother,  pouring  forth  a  windy  jere- 
miad over  my  juvenile  delinquencies,  and 
<lrawing  a  comparison  between  her  sons, 
which  he  knew  was  not  displeasing  to  her. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  four  years  I  was  at  school  wrought 
a  great  change  in  me,  —  a  change  which 
would  not  have  been  effected  at  home  ;  for 
I  had  learnt  in  class  and  playground  alike, 
in  emulation  and  success  and  defeat,  how 
to  "  give  and  take,"  which,  to  a  boy  natu- 
rally strong  and  intolerant,  was  an  invalu- 
able lesson.  At  home  I  was  surrounded  by 
those  who  bowed  down  to  my  mother,  —  I 
could  not  but  be  cogniznnt  of  how  well 
cringing  "answered."  There  was  a  thin, 
impalpable  atmosphere  of  flattery  and  de- 
ception which  pervaded  our  autocracy,  from 
nurseiy  to  cellar  ;  and  it  was  well  for  me 
that  I  was  removed  timely  from  this  un- 
wholesome air  to  the  bracing  coiiunonwealth 
of  school,  where  no  arrogance  was  tolerated, 
and  flattery  was  unknown  ;  and  where  a 
mean  action,  which,  in  the  keen  sight  of 
boyhood,  sophistry  could  not  gloze  over, 
was  punished  with  the  scorn  of  the  entire 
community. 

Raymond  lefl  for  Oxford,  when  I  return- 
ed home  ;  and  I  took  his  place  as  Mr.  Fran- 
cis's ])upil.  jMy  mother's  j)lan,  after  a 
consultation  with  my  Uncle  Levison,  was 
that  I  should  work  at  home  for  a  year  or 
two  (and  as  my  scholarship  was  si  ill  i)ack- 
ward,  it  was  hoped  Mr.  Francis  might  per- 


12 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


form  some  miracle  w'ltli  me  in  this  line), 
diirini^  wliifh  period  1  was  to  decide  my 
own  iuture  for  myself.  My  mother  used  to 
say  it  was  essential  1  sliould  learn  the  value 
of  money.  Liku  most  <;L'nei-ous  lads,  I  was 
recklessly  liberal.  For  this  reason,  I  inui- 
cine.  she  wisely  lce])t  fiom  me  the  amount  of 
fortune  which  would  be  mine  on  attainino; 
my  majority.  I  of  course  knew  that  my 
father  iiad  left  nie  an  indei)endence ;  but, 
in  truth,  I  had  no  inclination  to  be  idle. 
Mv  mother  once  or  twice  spoke  to  me  about 
goin;j;  into  the  (luards  ;  and  1  remember,  on 
one  occasion,  lier  saying  there  were  "  rea- 
sons which  rendered  it  vei'y  desirable  "  I 
shotdd  do  so.  I  am  nearly  positive  that  she 
said  nothing  more  definite  than  that ;  but 
my  name  was  j)ut  down  tor  a  commist^ion. 
1  did  not  greatly  lancy  the  idea  —  1  should 
have  preferred  the  Line  and  ibi't'ign  ser- 
vice ;  but  1  did  not  say  much  about  it,  tor 
my  mind  was  not  made  up  :  one  day  I  fan- 
cied one  thing,  the  next  day  another.  In 
the  mean  time  she,  and  those  who  saw 
through  her  eyes,  regarded  me  as  a  wild, 
harum-scarum  lad,  diflicult  to  hiHuence, 
impossible  to  control,  and  giving  grave 
cause  for  anxiety  as  to  "  iiow  he  would  turn 
out." 

"  Belinda,"  said  my  mother,  one  morn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Ilamleigh,  "  tliere  is  a  woman 
in  the  village  who  wants  to  give  a  lecture 
on  phrenology  in  the  schoolroom.  She  asks 
my  permission  and  patronage.  Shall  we 
go  ?     It  might  be  rather  amusing." 

'•  Rather  amusing,  certainly,  dear.  My 
darling  Evelyn,  I  will  have  your  head  felt." 

Evy  looked  alarmed. 

"What  will  she  do  ?  Oh,  please  not, 
mamma." 

"  Do  you  know  anj^  thing  of  phrenology, 
Mr.  Francis  V  "  asked  my  mother.  '•  Do  you 
attach  much  importance  to  it  as  a  science  V  " 

"  Yes,  if  taken  in  conjunction  with  others  ; 
but  the  body  affects  the  brain  largely  ;  indi- 
cations of  character  are  spread  all  over  a 
man's  frame,  and  often  contradict  each 
other.  The  face,  the  hand  (have  you  ever 
seen  the  curious  book  on  the  subject,  by  a 
Frenchman  V  *),  the  walk,  all  have  their 
tale  to  tell.  The  f;iult  with  most  specialists 
is  that  they  ignore  every  thing  outside  their 
own  narrow  field." 

The  village  schoolroom  was  full  when  we 
entered,  soon  after  eight  o'clock  ;  and  it 
rose,  as  if  for  Royalty,  when  my  mother 
made  her  way  to  the  front  row  of  chairs. 
A  stout  woman,  wearing  a  strong-minded 
jacket,  and  a  crop,  appeared  on  the  plat- 
form, a  moment  afterwards,  from  behind  a 
screen.  She  carried  her  lecture  in  one 
hand ;  in  the  other,  a  small  plaster  head, 

*  M.  Deebarolles. 


phrcnologically  mapped  out.  She  began  ; 
we  all  glanced  at  each  other,  my  mother 
pressed  her  lips  tight,  a  curl  of  contempt 
played  upon  Ray's,  Mr.  Francis's  eyes  twin- 
kled. That  the  lecturer  was  a  grossly-  igno- 
rant woman,  one  of  those  peripatetic  hura- 
i)ugs  who  affect  remote  villages  where  only 
they  can  obtain  a  hearing  was  clear  in  the 
first  dislocated  words  that  fell  li'om  her  lips. 
Rut  that  she  was  not  without  shrewdness, 
enabling  her  to  make  some  happy  guesses 
at  character,  was  apparent  by  and  bv.  As 
long  as  her  windy  and  priitentious  utter- 
ances were  confined  to  an  exposition  of  the 
science,  however,  there  was  nothing  to  re- 
deem the  '-lecture,"  except  its  incredible 
vulgarity  and  absurdity.  If  I  had  not  kept 
notes  of  it,  —  for,  knowing  there  is  nothing 
like  the  exercise  of  writing  to  prevent  laugh- 
ing outright,  and  thereby  greatly  scanda- 
lizing my  mother,  I  scribbled  as  much  as  I 
could  into  a  pocket-book, —  I  would  not 
trust  my  memory  to  reproduce  any  portion 
of  it.  It  was  thus  she  designated  some  of 
the  "  orgins,"  upon  the  j)laster  head  before 
her. 

"  'Ere's  'ope,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Di- 
vine 'ope  I  'Ope?  as  springs  eternal  in  the 
'uman  breast.  What  would  Sir  John  Parry 
in  the  Pol-lar  regins  'ave  done  without 
'ope  V  There's  nothink  as  makes  people 
bear  all  the  hills  of  the  flesh,  like  'ope.  And 
now,  there's  hinecolence !  What  a  fust- 
rate  attribute  is  binevolence  !  I  once  felt 
a  gentleman  as  'ad  binevolence  so  large  that 
'e  become  responsible  for  the  debts  of  a 
young  man  as  afterward  run  away  with  a 
large  sum  of  money,  and  the  gentleman  was 
redooced  to  beggary.  Now  that  come  of 
'is  not  understanding  phrenology.  'Ad  'e 
studied  this  noble  sci'nce,  'e  would  'ave  seen 
the  absence  of  the  moril  qualities  in  the 
young  man.  'Eres  Conlenlmenf.  Now, 
there  was  a  gentleman  as  wrote  up  outside 
'is  door,  '  An  estate  to  be  given  away,  to  the 
first  man  as  will  declare  'e's  contented.'  'E 
'ad  a  application,  before  long,  you  may  be 
sure.  ''Aire  you  quite  contented?'  the 
gentleman  asked.  '  I  ham,'  'e  replied. 
'  Then  why  do  you  come  'ere  f '  You  see,  if 
'e'd  bin  contented,  'e  wouldn't  'a  wanted 
the  gentleman's  money,  so  the  gentleman 
'ad  him  there.  'Ere,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
you  'ave  Veneration.  Veneration  is  the 
orgin  as  makes  us  venerate  things.  Now, 
it's  a  curious  thing  that  the  great  Vaultair 
as  was  a  athiest,  and  the  mighty  iMaraboo, 
the  evil  genius  of  the  Revolution,  both  'ad 
this  bump  largeh"  developed.  'Ow  do  you 
account  for  that  ?  'Ere,  above  the  heye, 
is  Form.  Most  sculptures  'ave  form.  Har- 
tists  'ave  color,  but  sculptures  have  form. 
Then  conies  Toone  and  Time.  A  man  who 
'as  toone  will  'um  a  thing  easily;  and  one  v/ho 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


13 


*as  time  '11  never  be  late  for  dinner.  Ami 
this  U'iuls  me  nat'rally,  ladies,  to  the  orgin 
of  G u.-ila ceousness,  usiuily  largely  developed 
amunj;  the  gentlemen.  I'd  advise  the  la- 
dies to  know  'o\v  to  roast  and  bile,  if  they 
wish  to  keep  their  lovers'  'earts.  Let  'em 
be  ever  so  beautiful,  the  road  to  a  man's 
'eart  is  'is  stomiek.  Without  a  proper  at- 
tention to  the  morils.  this  orgin  is  likely  to 
lead  to  'arm.  There  was  an  English  king 
and  several  Roman  emperors  as  died  of  it. 
No  (l(iul)t  their  'eads  would  'ave  showed  a 
bum])  like  a  crown-piece,  just  'ere.  Concin- 
tratlon  makes  a  man  fi.x  all  'is  thoughts  on 
one  object.  Sir  Isaac  Nooton  'ad  this 
bump  so  large  that,  when  be  was  courting 
a  lady,  'e  sat  beside  her  smoking,  and  think- 
ing of  science,  and  forgetting  all  about  the 
lady,  though  'e  'ad  'old  of  'er  'and,  till  at 
last  he  used  her  finger  for  a  tobacco-stopper  I 
That  was  concintration.  I  see  it  now, 
plainly  developed,  in  the  beautiful  and  'eter- 
ogenius  'ead  before  me,  which  is  a  mountain 
of  all  the  moril  qualities."  (Here  she 
waved  the  dirty  white  glove  in  the  direc- 
tion of  ray  mother,  who  bore  it  Avithout 
wincing.)  "Benevolence  sits  enthroned 
there,  and  all  the  'nir  of  the  'ead  can't  'ide 
it  —  begging  her  ladyship's  pardon  ibr  mak- 
ing so  free.  Is  there  any  one  as  would  like 
to  come  up  and  'ave  'is  'ead  felt  V  Would 
either  of  you  young  gentlemen,  or  the  young 
lady,  step  up  ?  " 

They  all  looked  at  me,  knowing  that  I 
was  more  likely  to  accede  to  her  request 
than  any  one  else ;  and,  as  I  thought  it 
would  be  go.>d  fun  to  see  what  she  said,  I 
did  jump  on  the  platform,  having  got  my 
laughter  tolerably  under  control  by  this 
time.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  excite- 
ment, and  some  tittering  in  the  back- 
benches, at  seeing  young  Muster  Osmund, 
wdio  was,  I  may  say,  a  tiivorite  with  most 
of  them,  in  this  position ;  and  when  she 
pulled  off  the  dirty  white  glove,  and  began 
kneading  my  head  with  her  punchy  little 
fingers,  I  could  see  all  the  necks  craning 
forward,  and  a  broad  grin  of  delight  on  the 
universal  assembly. 

"  It's  a  fine  'ead,"  she  began.  "  I  don't 
know  as  I  ever  see  a  much  finer  'ead." 
(Of  course  we  were  all  prepared  i'or  that ; 
but  some  one  of  the  farmer's  sons  at  the 
back  cried  out.  "  Brayvo  !  ")  "There's 
condjativeness,  which,  when  combined  with 
the  moril  qualities,  is  a  glorious  hattrii)ute. 
And  justice!  —  I  never  did  see  anything 
like  the  justice  in  this  'ead.  And  hobstina- 
cy —  that's  very  strong  —  would  be  a'most 
too  strong  (though  it's  a  fine  hattribute),  if 
it  warn't  for  this  'ead  bein'  open  to  impres- 
sions, I  see.  The  perceptive  orgins  is 
large.  ;ind  so  is  amativeness,  and  philopro 
Genesisness  —  that's  what  makes  a  man  a 


fijst-rate  'usband  and  father.  (Laughter 
and  cheers.  "So  is  reticule;  but  reticule 
is  a  dangerous  gilt,  for  it  makes  people  sar- 
caustic."  (Here  it  seemed  to  me  that  she 
pinched  my  head  viciously )  '•  Only  in 
this  'ere  'ead  I'm  sure  it's  kep'  under  re- 
straint by  the  moril  qualities.  I  wouldn't 
believe  it,  if  I  was  tole  to  the  contrary.  So 
about  the  origin  o?  Destruclivencss,  which  is 
unusual  large.  If  it  wasn't  for  Conslien- 
siousness,  which  is  well-developed,  it  might 
leail  the  possessor  of  this  'ead  to  com- 
mit murder.  As  it  is,"  she  continued,  find- 
ing this  contingency  was  not  received  with 
satisfaction  by  the  back-benches  —  "as  it 
is,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  must  remem- 
ber that  all  the  great  'eroes  —  the  Dook  of 
AVellington,  and  Boney  Party,  and  the  rest 
of  'cm  —  'ad  destructiveness  —  they  could- 
n't 'a'  done  tvhat  they  done  without  de- 
structiveness.  This  young  gentleman  is 
likely  to  become  an  'ero  "  (it  sounrled  like 
•'  a  Nero,"  but  I  am  disposed  to  hope  she 
didn't  mean  it),  "  from  'is  'ead  ;  which,  'e  no 
doubt,  in'erits  the  virtues  of  the  illustrious 
lady  I  see  before  me,  tlie  perfections  adorn- 
ing which  lofty  sphere  'as  made  her  notori- 
ous. And,  tendering  'er  my  'umble  thanks 
tor  her  gracious  condescension,  and  all  of 
you,  my  kind  friends,  for  the  flattering  at- 
tention you  'ave  paid  my  words,  I  wish  you 
all,  in  the  language  of  the  Swan  of  Haven, 
'  a  sweet  good-night.'  " 

For  days  afterwards,  this  oration  and  the 
diagnosis  of  my  character,  were  a  source  of 
unfailing  delight  amongst  us.  If  Evelyn 
was  helped  twice  to  pudding,  I  declared  I 
saw  the  bump  of "  gustaveousness"  visibly 
increased.  When  Ravmond  tried  to  wall z, 
1  told  him  he  had  neither  "  toone  nor  time," 
to  which  he  naturally  responded  that  "  ret- 
icule "  would  be  my  bane  through  life  ;  and 
as  to  my  combativeness  and  destructivc- 
ness,  they  became  by-words  in  the  family. 
The  "  moril  qualities,"  I  fear,  were  tacitly 
denied  me  ;  otherwise  the  lectttrer  was  held 
to  have  been  very  happy  in  her  psychologi- 
cal portrait. 

"  Osmund's  justice  is  without  mercy,  even 
towards  himself,"  said  Mr.  Francis  with  a 
smile,  when  he  beat  me  thi-ee  games  run- 
ning at  chess.  "  I  point  out  the  tolly  of  a 
move,  and  offer  to  let  him  take  it  back. 
He  sternly  refuses.  Ah  !  my  young  Aristi- 
des,  as  life  goes  on,  you  will  see  the  folly 
of  such  a  course.  Retrace  every  false  step 
you  can,  when  the  opportunity  offers ;  and 
mete  out  the  same  leniency,  full  measure, 
and  running  over,  to  others." 

Long  afterwards  those  words,  spoken  half 
in  jest,  used  to  recur  to  me.  Long  after- 
wards, when  sorrow  and  bitterness  and  death 
had  come  between  us,  the  memory  of"  those 
"  merry  days  when  we  were  young,"  and  of 


14 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


that  burlesque  on  phrenolofry  which  caused 
us  so  uiuch  lau;j;hter,  returned  to  me  with 
sad  distinctness.  Tliat  was  the  happiest 
Christinas  1  ever  passed.  Tlie  snl)er  liap- 
piness  of  hiter  years  is  anuther,  I  suppose 
a  belter  thing: ;  but,  after  the  hardening 
contact  with  the  worUl,  that  "  wild  fresh- 
ness of  niorninp;  "  of  wliich  the  poet  sings, 
can  never  return. 

At  seventeen  1  had  the  keenest  sense  of 
enjoyment.  My  home  was  not  what  would 
be  called  a  particularly  cheerful  one  ;  nor 
was  I  insi'nsible  to  the  inlluence  of  my 
mother's  and  brother's  peculiar  characters. 
But  I  was  blessed  with  high  spirits,  with 
strong  lungs,  stout  limbs,  and  an  indomita- 
ble hope  ;  I  loved  and  reverenced  Mr.  Fran- 
cis cordially  ;  1  worshipped  Evelyn,  who  was 
often  with  us,  and  spent  hours  of  the  mad- 
dest pleasure  on  the  back  of  my  father's 
old  Irish  hunter  "  Blarney,"  which  had 
descended  to  me.  Whatever  I  may  have 
done  in  the  way  of  study  or  reflection,  never 
interti;red  with  my  digestion.  I  was  not 
addicted  to  despondt'ucy  or  gloomy  fore- 
bodings. I  heard  and  saw  many  things 
that  gave  me  momentary  annoyance,  but 
my  buoyant  temper  quickly  recovered. 
(X-rtainly  few  boys  of  my  age  were  hap- 
pier. I  remember  a  little  circumstance 
one  day,  unimportant  in  itself,  but  which 
seemed  to  me  pregnant  with  meaning  when 
I  I'ecalled  it  long  afterwards. 

It  was  a  wet  winter's  day,  —  I  was  about 
sixteen  at  the  time,  —  and  I  had  been 
teaching  Evelyn  billiards  in  the  hall,  until 
she  declared  she  was  tired.  Then  we 
sat  down  on  the  oak  window-seat,  and 
watched  the  rain  making  a  broad  rivulet  of 
the  centre  of  the  road  through  the  park, 
the  cattle  huddled  up  together  under  the 
solid  shelter  of  the  old  yew-tree  in  the  hol- 
low, the  fog  creeping  up  to  us  from  the 
lake  below.  The  out-look  was  dreary 
enough  ;  I  turned  to  an  old  chest  filled  with 
rubbish,  and  opened  it  in  search  of  materi- 
als to  help  us  in  a  charade  which  Mr. 
Francis  was  writing  for  us.  I  forget  what 
we  found,  except  this  —  a  small  brass  cur- 
tain ring,  which,  as  it  just  fitted  Evelyn's 
third  finger,  I  insisted  should  remain  there, 
declaring  that  now  she  was  my  wife,  and 
nothing  could  separate  us.  Her  mother, 
who  was  y)assing  through  the  hall  at  that 
moment,  came  forward  with  her  galvanized 
smile,  and  took  the  ring  from  her  little 
daughter's  hand,  saying, — 

'•  This  is  really  a  most  silly  game,  here, 
my  dear  children.  Pray,  do  not  put  such 
silly  nonsense  into  Evy's  head,  my  dearest 
Osmund.  "  She  is  never  going  to  leave 
me  ;  are  you,  my  darling  ?  Never  leave 
dear  mamma  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Never!  but  Osmund  can  come  and  live 


with  us,  by  and  by,  when  he  is  a  man, 
mamma,  can't  he  ?  " 

"  Oh !  he  is  going  to  be  an  officer,  and 
guard  the  queen.  He  would  find  it  dull 
work  to  live  at  the  cottage  with  us  —  hem 

—  yes,  very  dull." 

"  Perhaps  I  should,"  was  my  blunt  re- 
joinder ;  "  but  officers  have  wives." 

"  \Vives  ?  Oh,  oh  !  —  here  she  laughed 
spasmodically  —  '•  what  an  idea  !  Why 
you,  a  younger  son,  mustn't  think  of  mar- 
r}ing  lor  —  for  —  until  you've  made  your 
fortune.  You're  not  like  Ray,  remember  : 
he  can  marry  when  he  likes." 

"  Evy  doesn't  care  for  fortune,  —  do 
you  ?  "  said  I  nettled.  "  And  she  wouldn't 
have  such  a  muff  as  Ray,  if  he  asked 
her  !  " 

"  Good  gracious  !  what  nonsense  you  do 
talk  !  "  here  Mrs.  Hamleigh  glanced  ner- 
vously behind  her.  "  Such  children  as  you 
both  are  should  leave  such  subjects  alone. 
I  must  beg  —  hem,  do  you  understand  me  ? 

—  that  you  won't  go  on  with  all  this  non- 
sense, my  dear  boy,  or  I  shall  have  to  take 
Evelyn  away.  There  now,  come  along,  my 
child." 

And  from  that  day  forwards,  I  observed 
that  Mrs.  Hamlei2;h  was  glad  of  an  excuse 
to  separate  Evelyn  and  me,  whenever  she 
could  do  so.  This  was  notably  the  case 
when  Raymond  was  at  home.  She  made 
obvious  efforts  to  throw  Evelyn  in  his  way  ; 
but  he  treated  her,  as  he  would  have  done 
any  other  little  school-girl,  with  frigid  con- 
descension, and  I  rubbed  my  hands  with 
glee  to  see  how  distasteful  these  enforced 
tete-a-tetes  were  to  the  child  herself. 

I  had  been  at  home  a  year  and  a  half, 
when  a  circumstance  occurred  which  affect- 
ed my  whole  after-life. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Your  mother  has  had  a  deuced  disa- 
greeable letter  this  morning,"  said  my 
Uncle  Levison  to  me,  as  we  stood  in  the 
veranda,  smoking  our  cigars,  after  lunch- 
eon. "  I  don't  see  the  use  of  making  a 
mystery  of  it,  for  the  thing  must  come  out 
if  the  fciol  goes  to  law  ;  and  as  Ray  isn't  at 
home " — 

"  What's  up  ?  —  Who's  going  to  law  ?  " 
I  asked  impatiently. 

"  Well,  a  fellow  has  come  over  from  the 
'  States,'  saying  that  he  is  the  son  of  your 
o-reat-uncle,  —  the  fellow  who  ran  away, 
and  was  never  heard  of  again,  you  know. 
It  may  be  true,  or  it  may  not ;  but,  any- 
way, the  fellow  hasn't  a  leg  to  stand  on,  for 
the  fact  of  old  Penruddocke's  first  marriage 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


15 


—  your  great-grandfather  —  was  never 
proved." 

"  But  -what  do  you  mean  by  liis  not  hav- 
ing a  leg  to  stand  on  ?  What  docs  he 
want  ?  " 

"  Want  ?  —  why,  he  wants  to  turn  you 
all  out  of  the  property,  —  that's  all." 

I  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Cool,  upon  my  word  I  Why,  it  hap- 
pened nearly  a  century  ago,  didn't  it?." 

"  Not  quite  that ;  but  long  enough,  I 
fancy,  fully  to  prevent  Ray's  title  to  the 
property  being  disturbed  under  any  circum- 
stances whatever.  The  most  annoying 
part  to  j'our  mother  is  that  the  prime  mover 
in  all  this  is  one  oi  your  branch  of  the  fami- 
ly, —  okl  Humphrey." 

"  What  !  —  my  father's  first  cousin  ? 
Confound  hiin  !  Is  it  he  who  writes  ?  I 
wish  my  mother  would  show  me  his  let- 
ter." 

"  I'll  ask  her  ;  but  she  hasn't  much  opin- 
ion of  your  head,  my  boy.  However,  I  told 
her  you  ought  to  know,  as  the  only  son  at 
home ;  and  these  people  may  be  making  a 
descent  here  some  day.  She  has  written 
to  Little,  and  he'll  be  down  here  to-morrow 
or  next  day." 

Little  was  the  family  solicitor,  in  whom 
my  mother  placed  the  utmost  confidence. 
She  was  closeted  with  him  for  some  hours 
when  he  arrived.  In  the  course  of  the 
afternoon  he  met  my  Uncle  Levison  and 
me,  when  the  Ibllowing  conversation  en- 
sued. First  of  all,  however,  let  me  give 
Mr.  Humphrey  Mark  Penruddocke's  curi- 
ous letter,  which  my  mother  consented  to 
let  me  see. 

Cheyne  Walk,  March  2, 1852. 

"  Dear  Madam,  —  A  strange  thing  has 
come  to  pass.  After  seventy  years,  we  have 
lit  upon  the  son  of  my  uncle  and  namesake, 
Humphrey. 

"  1  like  dealings  above-board,  so  I  take 
the  earliest  opportunity,  after  convincing 
myself  of  the  truth  of  Mr.  John  Penrud- 
docke's story,  to  transmit  it  to  you.  Of 
course  you  will  not  believe  it,  —  or,  if  you 
do,  you  will  deny  the  claim  he  is  prepared 
to  advance  upon  the  Penruddocke  estates. 
Well,  that  is  a  matter  for  law  to  fight 
out.  I  do  not  for  an  instant  imagine  that 
any  '  amicable  arrangement '  can  be  come 
to." 

"  A  friend  of  njine  was  in  America  a  few 
months  since,  and  chanced  to  meet,  in  a 
very  wild,  remote  district,  this  John  Pen- 
ruddocke, a  widower,  living  on  a  small 
farm,  with  an  only  daughter.  Struck  with 
the  name,  my  friend  questioned  him,  and 
learnt  tliat  he  was  the  son  ol"  Humphrey, 
who  had  died  a  few  years  since,  at  the  age 
of  seventy.     Papers  in  his  jjossession  prove 


the  truth  of  this  ;  and  a  portrait  of  his 
grandmother  (the  unhappy  Mrs.  Diinstan) 
confirmed  my  friend's  suspicion  that  he  had 
found  the  long- lost  heir  of  Beaumanoir. 
He  was  himself  wholly  ignorant  of  his 
claim.  His  father  had  never  willingly  re- 
ferred to  his  youth,  or  to  his  family,  declar- 
ing that  he  never  wished  to  heiir  of  them 
again  ;  and  the  inference  is  that  Humphrey 
believed  (what  he  had  always  heard  from 
his  fixther)  that  he  was  illegitimate. 

"  Now,  we  hope  to  prove  that  this  was 
not  so.  That  is  the  first  point.  The 
second  is  to  establish,  that,  by  fraud  or  de- 
ception, Humphrey  Avas  never  cognizant 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  his  liither's  heir. 
Certain  it  is  that  my  grandfather  neither 
advertised,  nor  took  any  other  step  to  re- 
call the  son  he  had  driven  from  home. 
What  little  was  done  in  this  way,  was  done 
by  my  own  father,  years  afterwards,  with- 
out effect. 

"  If  your  legal  advisers  like  to  look  at  " 
the  documents  in  Mr.  John  Penruddocke's 
possession,  they  can  do  so.  We  wish  to  do 
all  that  is  fair  and  open.  Mr.  John  and 
his  daughter  are  now  my  guests.  I  don't 
wish  to  deceive  you,  —  they  have  come,  at 
my  urgent  solicitation,  to  prefer  their 
claims.  Justice  is  justice.  I  don't  wish 
you  and  your  sons  any  harm  ;  but  I  like 
every  man  to  have  his  own. 

"  I  am  your  ladyship's  faithful  servant, 

Humphrey  Mark  Penruddocke." 

"  The  old  gentleman  has  placed  the  mat- 
ter in  a  very  clear  light,"  said  j\Ir.  Little. 
"  Supposing  that  Mr.  Penruddocke's  mar- 
riage to  Mrs.  Dunstan  could  be  established, 
any  claim  made  by  a  son  of  that  marriage 
would  be  barred  by  time,  unless  fraud  or  • 
deception  can  be  proved.  The  registers 
hei-e,  I  find,  are  destroyed  prior  to  1780,  «• 
so  that  probably  no  record  of  the  marriage 
(if  it  ever  took  place)  exists,  nor  of  the 
boy's  baptism.  At  the  very  threshold  there 
are  two  very  grave  obstacles  to  be  over- 
come." 

"  Simply  insurmountable,"  said  my  uncle. 
"  What  a  pestilent  old  fellow  this  Humph- 
rey is,  creatiiiij  this  disturbance,  — for  it  is 
evidently  all  his  doing." 

"  Well,  although  it  is  against  us,"  said  I, 
"  I  can't  but  admire  his  phick  in  the  cause 
of  what  he  believes  to  be  justice.  Of  course 
they  will  soon  find  it  is  no  go,  —  eh,  Mr. 
Little?" 

"  As  to  that  I  cannot  say,"  returned  the 
old  man  of  law.  "  I  must  see  what  docu- 
ments they  have.  I  understand  there  is  a 
letter  of  the  grandfather's  addressed  to  his 
son,  after  some  violent  altercation  between 
them,  in  which  he  distinctly  asserts  that  the 


16 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


son  has  no  lop;al  claim  on  him.  If  tlii«  lie 
s-o,  it  will  1)0  made  a  <i;roat  ])oint  of,  as  prov- 
ing: that  the  lad's  k'uitiinacy  was  concealed 
from  him.  They  will  hunt  throuch  all  the 
chuix'li  rciiisters  in  London  to  try  and  find 
the  marriage,  which  they  have  an  idea  took 
place  there.  1  am  afraid  they  may  give  us 
a  good  deal  of  trouble." 

"  But  my  grandfather,  who  had  certainly 
better  means  of  knowing  than  we  have, 
always  denied  his  lather's  fu-st  mar- 
riage ?  " 

''  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Little,  with  something 
very  like  a  smile  playing  round  the  corners 
of  his  month,  "that  may  be;  but  then  his 
brother  Osmund,  on  the  other  hand,  al- 
ways believed  in  the  marriage.  I  am  afraid 
that  goes  for  v«ry  little." 

Mr.  Little  returned  to  London,  and  kept 
my  mother  informed,  from  week  to  week, 
of  the  progress  of  affairs. '  At  first  the  sub- 
ject was  rarely  alluded  to  in  our  general 
circle  ;  but  I  was  too  eagerly  curious  to  hear 
the  last  news  of  the  enemies'  movements 
not  to  break  down  the  barrier  of  reserve 
which  edged  my  mother  round,  and  I  got 
her  at  last  to  tell  me  the  contents  of  Lit- 
tle's letters.  That  she  was  consumed  by 
inward  anxiety,  under  the  mask  of  calmness, 
I  couhl  not  doubt.  The  dark  circles  un- 
der her  eyes,  the  hectic  spot  upon  her 
cheek,  betrayed  her ;  but  she  evinced  no 
emotion,  —  neither  anger,  nor  disquietude. 
nor  fear. 

AVeeks  went  by :  midsummer  came. 
The  opinion  of  counsel  had  beeu  taken. 
Every  octogenarian  who  remembered  my 
great  grandfather  had  been  examined; 
but  no  additional  fact  of  importance  had 
been  brought  to  light.  The  case  for  the  pros- 
ecution was  still  ridiculously  weak ;  and,  in 
Little's  opinion,  the  bill  which  had  been 
filed  by  the  claimant  must  be  withdrawn, 
unless  some  unlooked-for  evidence  in  his 
favor  turned  up. 

One  day  it  occurred  to  me,  when  alone 
■with  Mr.  Francis,  to  ask  him  whether, 
among  the  old  volumes  of  papers  which 
he  had  fished  out  of  a  corner  of  the  libr.uv 
two  years  smce,  he  had  ever  lighted  upon 
any  thing  that  affected  the  question  now 
pending. 

He  was  readintr,  and  did  not  raise  his 
eves  for  a  muiute,  so  that  I  thought  he  had 
not  heard  me,  and  was  about  to  repeat  my 
question,  when  he  looked  up  and  said, — 

"  Yes,  I  did  come  upon  something  that 
related  to  this  matter ;  hut,  as  it  is  no  busi- 
ness of  mine,  I  conceive  it  is  my  duty  to  be 
silent  on  the  subject." 

Of  course  I  urged  him  to  tell  me,  prom- 
\<\n'T  him  that  whatever  he  said  should  iro 
no  further. 

"  Well,"   he   said,   drawing   out   of  his 


pocket  a  black  memorandum-T)ook,  which 
was  liis  constant  companion,  "  what  I  found 
was  this,  the  design  and  inscription  lor  a 
tablet  to  your  great  grandfather's  first  wife, 

—  the  lady  about  whom  there  is  so  much 
discussion.  I  supjiose  the  taV)let  never  was 
erected ;  but  this  rough  draught  had  all 
the  appearance  of  a  genuine  document." 

"  ^\'here  is  it  ?  Do  find  it  lor  me,  Mr. 
Francis." 

"  I  cannot —  it  has  disappeared." 

"  Disappeared  !  Who  can  have  taken  it." 

"  That  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he,  looking 
down,  and  drawing  with  his  pen  on  the 
blotting-book  before  him ;  '•  ]jerhaps  a 
housemaid  has  lit  the  fire  with  it.  At  all 
events,  it  is  gone.  I  searched  all  the  MSS. 
through  some  weeks  ago." 

"  Strange  !  Do  you  remember  how  the 
inscription  ran  ?  " 

"  Distinctly ;  and  here  are  the  dates, 
whicli  I  wrote  down  at  the  time."  He 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  his  pocket-book. 
"  I  had  heard  the  question  of  this  marriage 
mooted,  and  therefore  the  paper  had  an 
interest  for  me  it  would  not  otherwise  have 
had.  The  inscription  ran  thus:  'To  the 
memory  of  Caroline,  wife  of  Humphrey 
Raymond  Penruddocke  of  Beaumanoir, 
in  the  county  of  Dorest,  Esquire,  who  was 
married  on  the  13th  day  of  June,  1764,* 
and  died  on  the  30th  September,  1765,  in 
giving  birth  to  a  son." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  ?  Why,  if  so  — 
if — if  this  was  really  true  !  If  this  paper 
exists  "  — 

'*  It  does  not  exist.     I  feel  sure  of  that 

—  and  if  it  did,  it  would  have  no  legal 
value.  It  is  only  the  design  for  an  inscrip- 
tion to  be  erected  —  by  whom  ?  Perhaps 
by  your  great-uncle,  Osmund,  whose  fanat- 
icism on  the  subject  may  have  carried  him 
even  this  length." 

"  It  isn't  likely,"  said  I  resolutely.  "  It 
looks  uncommonly  ugly  —  as  if  there  really 
was  something  in  it.  It  would  regularly 
crush  our  case,  for  they  have  quite  enough 
evidence  to  prove  that  Humphrey  was  kept 
in  ignorance  of  his  rights." 

"  There  is  no  use  speculating  on  that, 
my  boy.  I  merely  name  the  fact  to  you  as 
curious.     It  has  no  real  weight." 

"  It  has  a  moral  weight  —  with  me,  at 
all  events.  I  don't  see  what  interest  it 
could  be  of  any  one's  to  forge  such  a  com- 
position—  I  mean,  to  invent  all  those 
dates.  It  is  very  odd.  I  should  like  to 
tell  my  mother :  she's  awfully  keen,  and 
scents  a  thing  c[uicker  than  any  man,  Mr. 
Francis.     She  "  — 


*  The  (late  of  a  marriage  upon  tomb  or  tablet, 
though  unusual,  is  not  witliout  precedent,  even 
where  no  special  reason  has  existed,  as  in  this  case, 
for  recordiug  it.  —  Ed. 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


17 


"  Never  mind.  I  forbid  you  to  namo  the 
subject  to  her.  She  mifrht  justly  say  I  liad 
been  ])ryin'^  and  meddling  in  family  mat- 
ters whieh  in  no  way  concern  me.  Re- 
member. I  liold  you  to  your  promise  not  to 
name  this  thing  to  any  living  soul." 

I  said  no  moi'e,  but  puzzled  over  the 
matter  by  myself  for  some  days,  when  an 
announcement  reached  us  which  startled 
me  by  its  connection  with  the  subject  of 
the  foregoing  conversation  ;  and  startled 
my  tutor,  too.  I  feel  sure,  though  he  said 
very  little.  This  announcement  was  to  the 
effect  that  John  Penruddocke's  emissaries 
were  on  tiie  alert,  having  learnt  fi'om  an 
old  laborer,  that,  when  my  grandfather 
made  a  new  family  fault,  an  old  one  under 
the  church  had  been  walled  up  ;  and  more- 
over, that  lie  remembered  a  tablet  in  the 
church  —  lie  could  not  say  to  whom  — 
which  had  been  removed  to  make  room  for 
a  window,  about  the  same  time.  John  now 
demanded  to  have  the  old  vault  opened. 
It  was  not  known  what  had  become  of  the 
tablet,  nor,  indeed,  to  whose  memory  it  was 
erected  ;  but  it  was  hoped  that  it  might  be 
found  in  the  vault,  and  might  prove  to  be 
the  missing  link  in  the  chain  of  John's  evi- 
dence. Of  course  my  thoughts  instantly 
reverted  to  what  Mr.  Francis  had  told  me. 
In  spite  of  my  strong  desire  to  disbelieve 
in  the  existence  of  any  such  monument, 
the  more  I  thought  over  it,  the  more  prob- 
able it  appeared,  that,  if  a  tablet  was  indeed 
removed  from  the  church  by  my  grand- 
father, it  was  one  which  recordcil  his  fa- 
ther's first  marriage,  which  he  refused  to 
acknowledge.  And  it  seemed  to  me  not 
unlikely,  that,  instead  of  destroying  the 
stone,  he  had  consigned  it  to  the  disused 
vault.  I  was  in  a  fever  of  anxiety  until 
the  eventful  day  should  arrive  fixed  for 
opening  it,  in  the  presence  of  John  Pen- 
ruddocke,  and  his  stanch  supporter,  old 
Humphrey. 

A  certain  Wednesday  was  appointed  for 
the  visit ;  my  mother's  formal  consent  hav- 
ing been  obtained  to  a  proceeding  which  it 
would  have  beer\  impolitic,  if  not  useless, 
to  refuse.  That  she  was  ill  .at  ease,  I 
could  see  plainly;  and  I  felt  for  her  most 
keenly.  But  hers  was  not  a  nature  to 
which  it  was  easy  to  offer  sympathy.  Hay 
was  now  at  home,  and  his  majority  at 
hand.  IIow  much,  or  how  little,  she  con- 
fided in  him,  I  never  knew;,  but  of  the  tor- 
ture which  she  must  have  endured  at  that 
time  I  i'eel  pretty  sure  he  was  kept  igno- 
rant. He  had  returned  crowiu'd  with  aca- 
demical laurels,  and  he  numifested  but  a 
languid  interest  in  the  subject  of  John's 
claim,  as  though  it  were  scarcely  W(jrth 
serious  consiileration.  Mr.  Putney  said 
this  showed  what  a  noble  character  he  was 


—  how  superior  to  sordid  interests.  I 
thought  it  only  proved  him  to  be  phle"- 
matic. 

Mrs.  Hamleigh  and  her  daughter  were 
not  at  Beaumanoir  on  this  occasion,  and  I 
was  glad  of  it.  As  old  Humphrey's  niece, 
to  whom  he  had  never  shown  any  kindness, 
her  presence  would  have  added  another 
awkwardness  to  the  only  visit  which  my 
father's  first  cousin  had  paid  to  Beaumanoir 
tor  more  than  forty  years. 

The  little  church,  a  squat,  ugly  building, 
whitewashed  without,  high-peAved  within, 
stood  in  the  shrubbery,  hard  by  our  liouse. 
I  could  throw  a  stone  from  my  bedroom 
window  into  the  churchyard  —  nay,  into 
the  church  itself,  when  the  small  postern 
in  the  north  transept,  which  was  sacred  to 
our  use,  stood  open.  This  door  led  directly 
into  the  big,  moreen-curtained  room  which 
we  occupied  during  divine  service,  where 
was  a  fireplace,  and  a  carpet,  and  a  perfect 
Stonehenge  of  hassocks  in  the  centre.  To 
the  left  of  the  door  was  a  small  lancet- 
window,  rather  more  than  six  feet  from  the 
ground  ;  and  at  right  angles  with  this  win- 
dow, i-n  the  wall  inside  the  pew,  was  the 
low  arch  and  flight  of  steps  leading  to  our 
family  vault.  I  had  never  entered  it  but 
once,  after  my  father's  death  ;  but  I  knew 
that  beyond,  and  communicating  with  it, 
was  the  'smaller  disused  vault,  which  was 
now  about  to  be  opened. 


CHAPTER  V. 

I  WAS  returning  from  shooting  on  Tues- 
day  ("  pei'haps  for  the  last  time  over  my 
brother's  ground,"  I  said  to  myself;  for  I 
had  many  misgivings  about  the  result  of 
the  morrow),  when,  on  jumping  a  gate  in 
one  of  the  least-frequented  parts  of  the 
park,  I  came  upon  my  mother,  talking  to 
one  of  the  Hounsfield  brothers.  I  was  a 
good  deal  surprised.  She  turned  quickly, 
and  came  towards  me ;  but  it  was  too  dark 
to  see  her  face.  The  fellow,  who  knew  I 
hated  him.  touched  his  hat,  and  slouched 
olF. 

"  Tell  your  wife  I  shall  come  and  see  her 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  William,"  said 
my  mother's  silvery  voice  through  the 
twilight. 

The  day  after  to-morrow  !  Good  heavens  ! 
How  could  she  make  plans  for  the  day  after 
to-morrow  ?  She  asked  what  sport  I  had 
liad.  I  answered  her,  and  presently  some- 
what bluntly  observed  I  couldn't  think 
how  she  could  be  out  in  the  damp,  at  that 
hour,  so  far  fi-om  home.  She  had  walked 
farther  than  she  intended,  and,  having  met 
William  Hounsfield,  had  stopped  to  speak 


IS 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


to  him  ;  she  was  afraid  his  wife  was  dyiiTj;. 
It  anjiereil  me  always  to  see  ray  motlier's 
partiality  for  these  people  ;  but  I  was  pretty 
-well  useil  to  it.  I  walked  liome  alongside 
her  ;  and  we  talked  of  other  things. 

Onr  evenings  were  never  particularly 
lively ;  bnt  that  evening  was  one  of  the 
most  depressing  I  ever  remember  to  have 
passed.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  ;  we  four 
people  sat,  each  with  a  book,  at  different 
tables;  but  I  am  confident  that  none  of  us, 
imless  it  was  Kaymoml,  read  a  word.  Our 
thoughts  were  all  upon  the  unpleasant 
business  of  the  morrow.  A  dread  had 
been  growing  up  silently,  I  know,  in  the 
minds  of  at  least  two  of  us,  that  "  the 
secrets  of  the  prison-house,"  to  be  dissolved 
to-morrow,  after  being  shut  away  from 
every  mortal  eye  for  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury, would  be  ]jrejudicial  to  our  cause.  My 
mother  turned  the  leaves  of  her  book  with 
laudable  regularity ;  jNIr.  Francis  sat  shad- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  hand.  I  verily  believe 
neither  knew  what  the  volumes  were  they 
held  in  their  hands.  B\'  and  by  tea  was 
brought  in.  My  mother  made  it,  and  soon 
afterwards  rose,  saying  she  was  tired.  I 
jum])ed  up,  and  lit  her  candle  ;  she  touched 
my  tbrehead  with  her  pale  lips,  and  then 
went  to  the  back  of  Raymond's  chair.  She 
took  his  head  between  her  hands,  and 
kissed  him  twice.  It  was  so  unusual  in  her 
10  betray  any  thing,  that  this  touched  me. 
Mr.  Francis,  too,  looked  up  ;  and  there  was 
a  strangje  expression  on  his  face  I  could  not 
then  iathom. 

I  went  to  bed  and  slept,  —  a  feverish, 
imeasy  sleep.  About  four  in  the  morning 
I  woke.  It  wanted  yet  two  hours  of  dawn  ; 
and  the  i^ky  through  my  uncurtained  win- 
dow was  very  tlark  and  starless.  My  bed 
was  so  near  the  window  that  I  could  see 
the  fliint  outline  of  the  church  as  I  lay 
there,  its  short  square  tower  defined  in 
solid  black  against  the  cloudy  night.  I 
tried  to  sleep,  but  it  was  in  vain.  I  tossed 
about  for  some  time,  and  at  last  got  up  and 
opened  the  window.  Looking  towards  the 
claurch  as  I  di<l  so,  I  was  startled  to  see 
■what  appeared  to  be  a  ray  of  light  coming 
from  the  lancet-window  I  have  spoken  of 
as  over  our  pew.  I  rubbed  my  eyes.  The 
light  had  disappeared.  Had  I  been  dream- 
ing ?     Was  it  a  Will-o'-the-wisp  ? 

No  1  for  there  it  was  again.  Who  could 
be  in  the  church  at  this  hour  ?  My  heart 
bt^an  to  beat  quick,  with  the  sense  of 
something  strange  and  adventurous.  To 
probe  this  mystery  was,  of  course,  my  first 
thought ;  to  remain  up  here  in  my  room, 
and  know  that  there  was  some  one  in  the 
church  at  this  extraordinary  hour  of  the 
night,  would  have  been  impossible  to  me. 
I  thrust  on  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a  jacket. 


Close  to  my  window  spread  the  branches 
of  an  old  witch-elm,  —  a  means  of  access  to 
my  room  which  I  constantly  used  :  it  was 
the  work  of  a  minute  now  to  swing  myself 
on  to  the  nearest  branch,  and  so  drop  to 
the  ground.  I  ran  noiselessly  with  my 
bare  fiiet  tlu'ough  the  shrubbery,  vaultcil 
over  the  fence  dividing  it  from  the  church- 
yard, and  crept  through  the  loni;  grass  be- 
tween the  graves,  till  I  reached  the  church. 

The  light  through  the  window  was  gone. 
I  stood  and  listened ;  there  was  not  a 
sound.  I  tried  the  door  softly  —  it  was 
locked.  I  went  all  round  the  church,  and 
did  the  same  by  the  other  doors,  with  the 
like  result.  Once  I  fancied  that  some- 
thing resembling  the  dim  shadow  of  a 
figure  glided  away  into  the  trees  as  I  ap- 
proached ;  but  I  listened,  and  could  not 
hear  a  sound,  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  my  excited  imagination  had  conjured 
up  this  shape  from  the  outline  of  a  slirub. 
I  returned  to  the  north  side,  annoyed  at 
being  baffled,  and  loth  to  believe  that  I 
could  have  been  deceived  by  any  optical 
delusion  about  the  light.  Yet  all  was  so 
absolutely  still  in  and  around  the  church, 
that  I  was  about  to  give  it  up,  when  suil- 
dcnly  a  faint  ray,  which  grew  stronger  and 
stronger,  once  more  streamed  through  the 
lancet-window.  To  a  good  climber,  as  I 
was,  it  was  easy  to  spring  up  the  wall,  and 
clutching  on- by  my  hands  to  the  sill  of  the 
window,  while  I  found  between  the  old 
stones  some  small  purchase  for  ray  toes,  to 
look  down  into  the  church  below. 

As  I  did  so,  the  sweat  started  out  on  my 
forehead.  The  door  of  our  family-vault 
stood  open,  two  men  were  coming  up  the 
steps  bearing  something  between  them ; 
upon  the  top  step  stood  a  figure  whose  back 
was  towards  rae,  entirely  covered  by  a 
long  black  cloak,  holding  a  lantern  for  the 
men.  I  recognized  them  at  once :  they 
were  the  two  Ilounsfields.  What  they 
were  carrying  appeared  to  be  a  box  full  of 
stones,  broken  up  into  small  pieces.  They 
came  up  into  the  church,  and  then  the  fig- 
ure who  held  the  lantern  locked  the  door 
of  the  vault.  I  felt  ray  head  swim  round  ; 
I  scarcely  knew  what  I  thought,  what  I 
suspected,  in  those  few  terrible  moments. 
I  only  know  that  what  I  most  dreaded  was 
to  s(;e  that  figure  turn  and  show  its  face. 

The  men  came  with  their  burden  towards 
the  door,  close  to  which  I  was  clinging  on 
the  wall.  The  figure  and  the  lantern  fol- 
lowed. At  first  it  was  in  shadow  —  I  could 
not  clearly  see  it;  but  just  before  the  door 
was  unlocked,  the  light  for  an  instant 
flashed  on  the  face,  and  my  horrible  doubt 
—  which  scarcely  had  been  a  doubt  —  was 
realized.  I  could  hardly  repress  a  cry  ;  it 
was  as  though  I  had  been  shot.     I  had  just 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


19 


streni^tli  to  keep  cTmginc;  en  until  they  had 
passed  out,  and  had  tilided,  with  the  lan- 
tern darkuned,  through  the  trees  in  the  di- 
reetion  of  the  lake.  Then  I  rolled  down, 
like  a  stone,  into  the  grass  below,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  ray  life,  1  fainteil. 

I  have  a  fancy  —  an  impres.-^ion  so  dim 
that  it  is  hardly  to  be  called  a  recollection 
—  that  when  I  first  began  to  recover  con- 
sciousness, some  one  was  bending  over  me, 
raising  my  head,  and  dashing  water  in  my 
face.  But  the  image  almost  instantly  faded 
away,  and  I  was  alone,  —  alone  in  the  gray 
twilight  of  dawn,  lying  in  the  dew-soaked 
grass  at  the  foot  of  the  lancet-window,  and 
every  thing  was  as  silent  as  the  graves 
around  me.  Giddy  and  bewildered,  I  stag- 
gered to  my  feet,  and  slowl)-  the  terrible 
truth  of  the  night  came  back,  like  a  great 
wave,  and  broke  over  me. 

It  was  full  an  hour  before  I  had  the  heart 
to-reclimb  the  old  witch-elm,  and  creep 
back  into  my  room. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

I  WOKE  late  next  morning,  with  a  burn 
ing  head,  and  the  confused  sense  of  a  bad 
dream  that  had  broken  my  rest.  Little  by 
little  the  shattered  memory  formed  itself 
into  a  hard,  consistent  whole  :  I  buried  my 
face  in  the  pillow  and  groaned  aloud.  I 
dreaded  to  meet  any  one,  —  the  servants, 
these  strangers  who  were  coming :  I  felt  as 
though  they  must  all  be  able  to  read  the 
shameful  secret  in  my  face.  And,  most  of 
all,  1  dreaded  to  meet  her. 

Breakfast  was  happily  over  when  I  got 
down  stairs  —  the  room  was  empty.  John 
Penruddocke  and  his  friends  were  to  leave 
London  l)y  the  8,  A-Ji.,  train,  which  reached 
our  small  station  at  12.  My  mother  had 
announced  some  days  before,  that  she  con- 
sidered it  due  to  her  own  dignity  to  receive 
"  our  enemies  "  with  every  possible  courtesy. 
She  sent  the  carriage  to  the  station  to  meet 
them.  I  had  far  rather  she  had  barricaded 
the  house,  and  declined  to  admit  them.  It 
would  have  been  honester,  at  least. 

I  ran  out  into  the  park,  I  plunged  in 
among  the  trees,  1  knew  not,  I  cared  not, 
in  which  direction,  breaking  through  the 
tangled  thicket,  until  I  came  to  a  little  open 
space,  where  I  could  throw  myself  upon  the 
grass,  safe  froui  any  ctnious  eyes.  To 
make  a  pretence  of  studying  with  Mr. 
Francis  this  morning  would  have  been  im- 
possible. 1  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
seeing  him  whom  I  respected  so  highly,  and 
whose  counsel,  under  almost  any  other  cir- 
cumstance in  life,  I  should  unhesitatingly 
have  sought.     Nor  could  1  sit  at  liome,  lis- 


tening to  the  ticking  of  the  great  clock, in 
the  hall,  and  waiting,  —  waiting  for  what? 
Did  I  not  know  the  result  of  this  coming 
business  now  with  almost  absolute  certain- 
ty ? 

And  what  could  I  do?  In  vain  I  asked 
myself  the  question.  Expose  my  own 
mother,  blast  our  honoraljie  reputation  as  a 
family  forever,  or  let  this  wrong  be,  and 
live  under  the  secret,  unspoken  burden  of 
a  disgraceful  deed  henceforward  ?  What- 
ever else  I  mi'iht  do,  this  I  felt  I  could  not. 
I  was  a  hot-blooded  boy,  in  whom  justice 
was  something  more  than  a  cold,  abstract 
\irtue,  and  whose  heart  fired  up,  thank 
God  !  at  the  thought  of  disloyalty  or  un- 
truth. 

I  lay  there  for  more  than  an  horn-,  tossin"" 
to  and  fro,  plucking  at  the  grass  with  fever- 
ish hands,  unable  to  determine  on  any  defi- 
nite course  of  action.  By  and  by  I  heard 
the  distant  grind  of  carriage-wheels  upon 
the  gravel  drive,  andl  knew  "  our  enemies  '^ 
were  come.  I. sprang  to  my  feet — the  ne- 
cessity for  prompt  decision  as  to  my  course 
of  action  became  urgent,  —  I  would  speak 
openly  to  my  brother.  I  set  off"  running, 
antl  got  to  the  house  just  as  the  carriage 
luul  discharged  its  freight,  to  wit,  a  short, 
active  man,  with  sharp  features  and  gray 
hair,  whom  I  had  no  difficulty  in  determin- 
ing to  be  Humphrey  Penruddocke ;  two 
others,  one  a  very  tall  man  (no  doubt  the 
claimant,  John),  and  his  solicitor,  whose 
faces  I  could  not  see,  and  a  young  girl,  with 
red  hair,  as  awkward  a  creature  as  I  ever 
beheld.  I  slipped  in  by  a  side  door,  and 
reached  the  library  before  the  unwelcome 
guests.  There,  as  I  anticipated.  I  found 
my  mother  and  Raymond,  with  Little  and 
Uncle  Levison,  who  had  come  down  the 
night  before,  to  give  his  sister  tiie  support 
of  his  handsome  presence.  They  were  all 
three  standing  near  the  fireplace  as  I  en- 
tered,—  my  mother,  beautiful  and  calm, 
perhaps  a  little  pale,  as  was  natural  on  such 
an  occasion,  but  neither  more  nor  less  care- 
fully dressed  than  usual.  She  held  a  tea- 
rose  in  her  hand,  at  which  she  smelt  every 
now  and  then.  Raymond  had  a  new  coat 
on,  which  did  not  add  to  the  ease  of  his 
demeanor  :  as  to  his  face,  there  it  was,  as 
it  always  was,  regularly  chiselled,  nerveless, 
awfully  sweet,  like  an  Antinous  of  a  de- 
based period  in  Grecian  Art.  Uncle  Levi- 
son looked  by  far  the  most  fidgety  and 
anxious  of  the  trio,  —  he  jjulled  down  his 
wristbands  every  n)iuute,  by  an  outw;ird 
strike  of  the  arms,  as  if  he  were  swimming; 
and  then  he  looked  at  his  boots. 

No  one  looked  at  me.  Had  they  done 
so,  my  face,  not  being  so  imperturbable  as 
my  brother's,  must  have  betrayed  me.  But 
their  attention  was  directed  to  another  door 


20 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


tlun  the  one  by  which  I  entered  ;  and  this 
other  door  was  now  Ikina;  open.  "  Mr.  and 
Miss  Peuru(hloeke,  ^Ir.  llninphrey  Penrud- 
docke,  and  J\h\  Archer,  were  annoiinceil. 
My  mother  went  forward. 

"  Ray,"  I  whispered,  "  come  into  the 
next  room  for  a  moment,  before  —  before  " 
—  he  stared  at  me  in  wonderment :  I  gasped 
ont  — "  beibre  this  business  is  entered 
upon.  I've  —  I've  got  something  to  tell 
you." 

"  I  cannot,  Osmund.  How  can  I  just 
now  ?  These  peoi)le  "  —  And  he  moved 
towards  the  door.  I  caught  hokl  of  his 
arm. 

'•  For  God's  sake  "  — 

"  Pray  do  not  detain  me  I  I  will  listen 
to  yon  by  and  by ;  I  cannot  now." 

'•But  you  must!  by  and  by  will  not  do. 
I  must  speak  to  you  before  they  go  to 
church." 

He  stared  at  me  with  his  cold  blue  eyes, 
and  gently  shook  me-  olf.  They  were  in 
the  room ;  my  mother,  with  a  queen-like 
sweetness,  was  holding  out  her  hand  to  the 
ugly  girl  anil  her  father.  It  would  have 
brought  tears  into  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Ilam- 
leigh,  had  she  been  present ;  it  would  have 
furnished  the  text  for  a  sermon  on  Chris- 
tian charity  from  Mr.  Putney. 

John  Penruddocke,  at  whom  of  course  I 
looked  with  most  interest,  was  apparently 
about  sixty,  a  Herculean  man,  with  really 
fine  features,  cast  in  a  large  mould,  and  a 
kindly  expression  of  countenance.  His 
accent  and  mode  of  speech  were  not  Amer- 
ican ;  neither  were  they  those  of  an  English 
gentleman.  They  were  more  countrified 
and  unconventional  than  vulgar.  As  to  his 
dress,  he  wore  high,  big  boots,  and  a  coat 
which  Poole  would  have  disowned.  But 
his  manner,  considering  what  an  ordeal  this 
interview  must  have  been  to  him,  couM  not 
have  been  better.  He  was  come,  avowedly, 
to  try  to  turn  us  out  of  house  and  home  ; 
and  he  was  met  with  a  grand  courtesy  by 
a  beautiful  woman,  who  seemed  to  be  a 
combination  of  sovereign  and  saint.  Even 
for  a  man  of  the  world,  the  position  would 
have  been  awkward ;  how  much  more  so 
for  a  wild  back-woodsman  !  No  doubt  he 
felt  it,  in  some  measure;  but  there  was  no 
shrinking,  no  shamefacedness.  He  was 
simple,  straightforward ;  and  his  words, 
though  few,  were  to  the  point.  I  was 
struck  with  his  frank  acceptance  of  all  that 
was  advanced  on  our  side,  as  though  the 
idea  of  any  thing  underhand,  or  that  was 
not  said  in  perfectly  good  faith,  never  oc- 
curred to  him.  In  this  respect,  the  contrast 
between  him  and  our  Cousin  Humphrey  was 
notable.  A  more  shrewd,  suspicious  old 
lellow  I  never  met.  I  could  see  that  he 
trusted   no  one,  doubted  every  statement, 


every  document ;  and  while  treating  my 
mother  with  punctilious  civility,  was  not 
the  least  impressed  by  her  imposing  demean- 
or. The  girl  looked  to  me  like  a  boy 
dressed  in  woman's  clothes.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it,  —  notwithstanding  expres- 
sive ey»'s,  she  was  very  ugly  ;  and  her  large 
bony  "limbs  seemed  trying  to  free  themselves 
from  the  restraints  that  civilization  had  im- 
posed on  them.  The  buttons  of  her  dress 
at  the  back  had  burst;  and,  in  her  red 
hands,  she  held  her  gloves  rolled  up  in  a 
ball.  A  more  odd,  ungainly-looking  crea- 
ture I  never  beheld  ! 

"  May  I  offer  you  luncheon  before  you  go 
to  the  church,  or  will  you  have  it  after- 
wards ?  "  said  my  mother. 

"  We  will  go  to  the  chui-ch  first,"  struck 
in  Cousin  Huuiphrey  (quickly,  before  John 
could  reply.  "  We  have  to  catch  the  after- 
noon up-train  ;  and  business  before  pleasure, 
Lady  Rachel." 

"  You  will  excuse  my  going  with  you. 
My  son  will  show  you  the  way,  and  my 
brother,  Col.  Levison  Rich.  I  have  given 
orders  for  the  vault  to  be  open  ;  and,  if 
there  is  any  thing  further  you  want  to 
exajnine,  pray  do  not  hesitate  to  ask.. 
Luncheon  will  be  ready  on  your  return. 
Perhaps  Miss  Penruddocke  would  prefer 
remaining  with  me  V  " 

But  Miss  Penruddocke  accompanied  her 
father  :  the  high  polish  of  ray  lady's  mar- 
ble presence  awed  her,  I  could  see,  and 
she  was  glad  to  escape. 

They  passed  through  a  garden-door,  on 
to  the  terrace.  I  felt  a  rush  of  blood  to  my 
head,  a  singing  in  my  ears.  I  catight  Ray's 
arm,  and  dra'iii'ed  him  aside  by  main  force. 

"  Listen  !  "  I  said  fiercely.  ' "  You  shall, 
you  must,  listen  to  me  1  They  are  going  to 
the  vault ;  and  what  they  are  going  to  look 
for  they  won't  find,  for  it  has  been  deslrof/ed." 

He  stared.  At  last  he  inquired  mildly 
what  I  meant. 

"  I  mean  that  the  tablet  upon  which  John 
Penruildoi'ke's  case  mainly  rests  now  — 
the  last  link  in  his  evidence  —  has  been 
broken  up,  and  the  fragments  thrown  into 
the  lake  last  night." 

"  You  arc  dreaming,  Osmund  !  Who  "  — 

'■  Oh  !  don't  ask  me  who  did  it :  the 
thing  is  done,  and  it  will  come  out  sooner 
or  later,  —  all  such  crimes  do.  Your  only 
chance  of  saving  our  honor  is  boldly  to  avow 
that  it  has  come  to  your  knowledge,  that,  un- 
tbrtunately,  some  lijoUsh  and  ignorant  per- 
son, thinking  to  befriend  you,  has  made 
away  with  it.  Y'ou  will  then  give  ordei's 
for  the  lake  to  be  dragged." 

"  You  are  dreaming,  Osmund,"  was  still 
the  tbrmala  of  my  brother's  reply  ;  and  he 
struggled  to  release  liis  arm. 

"  By  heavens  !    Ray,  I  am  not  dreaming  I 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


21 


What  I  tell  you  is  true,  as  true  as  I  stand 
here.  For  God's  sake,  speak  !  —  do  sonie- 
thin;j;  quicJ^ily!  Half  an  hour  henee  it  will 
be  too  late.  You  cannot  then  come  forward, 
when  they  have  left  the  vault.  When  the 
tablet  is  missing,  you  must  speak,  or  hold 
your  tongue  upon  this  shameful  deed,  and 
forever  bear  the  disgrace  of  it  through 
life  !  " 

"  Nonsense,  Osmund  !  Let  me  go  !  See, 
they  are  waiting  for  me.  Don't!  —  you 
hurt  my  arm  !  " 

"  I  won't  let  you  go  till  you  promise  me 
to  speak  out." 

'•  How  absurd  you  are,  to  expect  me  to 
repeat  this  nonsense  about  a  tablet !  After 
all,  if  such  a  thing  existed,  and  was  de- 
stroyed, I  know  nothing  about  it.  AVhy 
should  I  say  <iny  thing  that  is  to  injure  us  ? 
I  am  not  to  blame  if  any  tablet  was  made 
away  with,  which  I  do  not  believe." 

Then,  indeed,  I  did  let  him  go,  but  with 
such  an  impetus  that  he  staggered  back 
ac^ainst  the  balustrade.  I  myself  recoiled, 
as  if  from  a  serpent.  The  suorn  I  felt  shot 
from  my  eyes  as  I  said,  — 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  think  for  a  moment  I 
could  kindle  a  spark  of  any  manly,  honora- 
ble feeling  in  such  a  miserable  creature  as 
you  are  !  You  haven't  the  excuse  of  being 
a  wogtian,  and  a  mother,  as  she  is,  who  sins 
for  the  sake  of  her  son.  You're  a  con- 
temptible wretch,  who  has  no  sense  of 
shame,  or  you  could  not  endure  the  bare 
thought  of  this  infamy  !  But  I  have  done 
with  you  from  this  day  forward  !  I  wash  my 
hands  of  you  and  the  whole  lot !  I  wiA 
not  expose  her  ;  but  I  won't  countenance 
this  swindle,  so  help  me  God  !  " 

I  was  choking  with  passion  as  I  turned 
from  him.  I  suppose  he  crawled  away 
after  the  others.  I  did  not  look  round,  but 
ran  up  stairs  to  my  own  room,  and  locked 
myself  in.  An  hour  later  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door. 

"  Her  ladyship  desired  me  to  let  ywi 
know,  sir,  that  luncheon  has  been  on  the 
table  some  time." 

"  Bring  me  something  up  here.  Say  I  am 
not  coming  down." 

The  afternoon  waned  ;  I  heard  the  car- 
riage come  round  from  the  stables,  and  then 
it  drove  rapidly  off,  bearing  our  unwelcome 
guests  to  the  station.  It  was  all  over,  then  ; 
this  foul  work  had  got  itself  done,  beyond 
recall,  and  the  rightiul  owner  of  these  broad 
lands  was  gone,  crest-fallen,  discomfiitd. 
^ly  rage  was  no  longer  at  white-heat ;  but 
indignant  shame  brought  scalding  tears 
into  my  eyes.  I  was  ludpless,  for  I  could 
not  denounce  my  own  mother,  and  my 
brother's  eyes  I  had  opened.  He  might 
have  redressed  this  wrong ;  but  he  was  con- 
tent tu  sit  down,  and  do  nothing.     I  would 


not  so  sit  down.  I  would  no  longer  cast  in 
ray  lot  with  them,  ami  bentifit,  even  indi> 
i-ectly,  from  this  rascality.  I  would  cut 
adrift  from  them  all,  and  fight  my  own  way 
in  the  world,  under  another  name.  My 
resolution  never  wavered  all  that  afternoon  ; 
as  soon  as  night  was  come,  I  would  escape. 

The  dressing-bell  for  dinner  came,  just 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  One  of  the 
men  brought  hot  water  to  my  door.  I  sent 
him  away. 

"  I  am  not  coming  down  to  dinner.  Say 
I  have  a  headache,  and  bring  me  up  some 
cold  meat  and  a  jug  of  beer." 

Between  nine  and  ten  o'clock,  I  heard  a 
step  upon  the  old  stairs  (which  led  only  to 
my  room,  and  some  unoccupied  ones),  a 
step  which  I  now  feared,  though  I  loved  it 
more  than  any  other  in  the  house.  If  Mr. 
Francis  saw  me,  he  would  at  once  detect 
that  something-  was  gravelv  amiss,  —  he 
might  even  suspect  my  design :  his  elo- 
quence was  the  only  thing  I  feared  might 
shake  my  resolution.  1  threw  myself  upon 
the  bed,  and  turned  my  face  to  the  wall. 
There  was  a  knock. 

"  Osmund,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Will 
you  let  me  in  V  " 

"  I  am  in  bed." 

"  Won't  you  get  up,  and  open  the  door  to 
me  ?  " 

"  Pray  forgive  me,  Mr.  Francis.  I  have 
an  awful  headache.  I  can't  talk.  Thank 
you  for  coming  to  look  after  me.  I  shall 
be  all  right  to-morrow." 

"  Good-night,  then,  Osmund." 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Francis.  You  forgive 
me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  boy.  Come  to  my 
room,  and  report  yourself  all  right  in  the 
morning." 

Then  I  heard  the  long  measured  step 
return  down  the  corridor,  and  descend  the 
stairs. 

I  spent  the  next  half  hour  in  meditating, 
and  about  the  same  space  of  time  in  mak- 
ing my  preparations.  I  had  five  pounds, 
and  a  few  shillings,  in  my  possession.  la 
prosecuting  the  scheme  I  had  in  view,  any 
superfluous  wardrobe  would  have  been  an 
encumbrance.  A  change  of  linen,  my 
diary,  and  a  pocket  Shakspeare,  with  tlie 
remains  of  the  bread  and  meat  from  my 
dinner,  were  tied  up  in  a  pocket-haudker- 
cliief,  and  slung  over  my  shoulder  on  a 
stout  stick.  I  put  on  my  shabbiest  shoot- 
ing clothes,  and  my  oldest  wide-awake  ;  the 
only  object  of  real  value  upon  me  was  my 
father's  gold  repeater,  which  he  had  left 
me,  and  which  I  resolved  never  to  part 
with. 

AVhen  the  house  had  been  (juiet  some 
time,  I  opened  my  window  softly,  and  swung 


22 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


mvself  on  to  the  ■wit<'li-e!m,  ami  from  it  to 
the  ground,  as  I  had  done  the  pi'evioiis 
nisht.  It  was  starli2:ht,  and  very  still. 
Tliore  was  not  a  sound,  except  the  bayinc;- 
of  one  of  the  dogs  in  the  Ptal)le.  The 
house,  as  I  looked  back,  stood  dimly  defined 
against  the  sk}-.  From  one  win<low  only 
there  shone  a  light:  it  was  Mr.  Francis's 
room.  It  was  strange,  but  I  i'clt  more  at 
leaving  him  —  and  without  a  word,  without 
a  sign  —  than  any  one  else  in  my  old 
home.  J^o  more  my  home,  henceforward  ! 
I  would  never  return  to  it,  never  break 
bread  within  those  doors  as  long  as  my 
family  held  it  in  unlawful  possession.  On 
that  I  had  made  up  my  mind,  with  all  the 
fierce  energy  of  eighteen. 

And  so  I  strode  away  at  a  swinging  pace 
among  tlie  trees  ;  and,  leaping  the  ])ark-pul- 
ings,  found  myself  on  the  high-road. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I    CALCULATED  that  by  walking  fast  I 
might   catch   the  midnight  mail   from  the 

B railway-station,   about   three  miles 

distant.     I  had  scarcely  reached  it  when  I 
heard     the    railway    whistle.       With    my 
wide-awake  driven  over  my  eyes,  and  my 
coat-collar  turned  up,  I  ran  into  the  ticket- 
office,  in  the  uncertain  gaslight  of  which  it 
was   no  wonder  the   sleepy  clerk  did  not 
recognize   me.      As   the  train  came  up,  I 
watched  my  opportunity  when  the  jjorter's 
back  was  turned, >and  jumped  into  a  third- 
class  carriage,  where  I  found  myself  alone. 
In  less  than  an  hour  I  alighted  at  a  station 
on  the  edge  of  the  New  Foi-est,  but  a  short 
distance  from  Mrs.   Hamleigh's  house.     It 
stood  on  the  outskirts  of  a  village,  —  an  old 
red-briek  dwelling,  almost  blind  of  all  its 
eyes,  with  roses,  and  magnolia,  and  Virgin- 
ian creeper,  of  no  architectural  pretension, 
but   homely  and  pleasant  of  aspect.     Be- 
tween it  and   the   high-road   were  a  lawn 
and  a  gravel  drive,  and  several  fine  oaks, 
one  of  which  almost  touched  the  house,  and 
ought  to  have  been  cut  down,  but,  by  rea- 
sea  of  its  beauty,  had  been  hitherto  spared. 
I  lifted  the   latch  of  the  gate  (nothing 
was  ever  padlocked  there),  and  passed  in; 
but  my  footfall  on  the  gravel,  though  I  trod 
li^jjhtly,  aroused  a  sharp  yelping  bark  from 
the  house.     I  stepped  on  to  the  turf;  the 
faithful  little  guard  was  not  to  be  deceived, 
however  ;  he  uttered  his  sharp  little  '•  Be- 
Avare  !  "  at  intervals.     And  now,  from  the 
stable-yard,  another  dog  was  incited    by 
sympathy  to  enter  his  protest  against  tlie 
intrusion.    The  moon  had  risen  ;  each  object 
on  the  lawn   was  as  visible  as  by  day.     I 
crept  on,  under  the  shadow  of  the  boughs, 


making  for  the  large  oak  which  stood  over 
against  Evelyn's  window.  If  I  could  only 
reach  that,  I  felt  I  was  safe,  should  the 
household  be  aroused  ;  but  I  was  subjected 
to  no  such  peril.  The  terrier's  bark  indeed, 
grew  more  and  more  fierce,  as  the  old  oak 
creaked  and  rustled  w^hen  I  swung  myself 
up  into  its  boughs ;  but.  he  slept  in  Eve- 
lyn's room,  as  I  soon  discovered,  for  the 
window,  on  account  of  the  heat,  had  been 
left  open  ;  and  fortune,  for  once,  distinctly 
favored  me.  The  dog's  persistent  bark 
woke  his  mistress,  which  I  might  not  have 
found  it  easy  to  do,  without  danger,  and  he 
did  not  arouse  any  other  member  of  that 
sleepy  household. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room ;  but  I 
heard  the  sweet  young  voice  say,  "  What  is 
the  matter,  Roughey  V  "  And  then  a  little 
figure  in  a  white  night-dress  came  pattering 
across  the  floor  to  the  window,  and  leant 
out  in  the  moonshine,  chattering  in  doc'-lan- 
guage  to  her  pet.  "  'Ou  foolish  'ittle  dog  ! 
There's  nothing.  What  'ou  making  such  a 
fuss  about,  disturbing  'ou  mistress  in  this 
way  V  "  Then  she  looked  up  into  the  clear 
summer  night,  and  over  the  moonlit  lawn, 
with  its  islands  of  black  shadow,  and  leant 
her  firmly-cleft  little  chin,  which  belied  the 
softness  of  her  eyes  and  lijis,  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hand,  and  mused.  What  was  she 
thinking  of?  I  was  afraid  to  breathe  her 
name,  ever  so  low,  without  some  prepara- 
tion ;  she  might  scream  aloud  in  her  first 
terror.  I  scrawled  a  fiew  words  in  pencil 
upon  a  leaf  of  my  Shakspeare,  and  twist- 
ing it  round  an  acorn,  I  tossed  it  in  at  the 
window,  aiming  at  the  dressing-table  be- 
side her,  where  it  fell.  She  started,  with  a 
hall-suppressed  cry,  and  ran  into  the  room. 
I  remained  perfectly  still ;  and  in  a  minute 
or  two,  as  I  anticipated,  curiosity  conquer- 
ing alarm,  she  came  back  slowly  and 
stealthily  to  the  table,  and  untwisted  the 
little  crumpled  ball. 

"  It  is  I — Osmund.  I  am  in  the  oak- 
tree.  Do  not  make  a  noise.  Let  me  speak 
to  you  for  a  minute." 

She  ran  up  to  the  window  at  once,  her 
face  and  neck,  as  I  could  see,  one  flush  of 

joy- 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  I  whispered.  *'  I 
have  run  away  from  home,  Evy,  and  I  am 
going  off,  —  going  away  for  a  long  time 
somewhere  or  other ;  but  I  couldn't  <ro 
without  saying  good-by  to  )'ou,  darling."' 

'' O  Osmund!  Going  oQ'!  —  run  away 
from  home  !  What  do  j^ou  mean  ?  Have 
you  been  a  naughty  boy  ?  " 

"  No,  dear  ;  but  I  couldn't  stay.  Never 
mind  why  —  I  can't  tell  you.  Don't  waste 
time  by  asking  me  any  questions,  Evy.  I 
can  only  stay  a  minute  ;  for,  if  I  was  discov- 
ered, they  would  try  to  stop  me.     Kemem- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


23 


ber,  yon  mustn't  breathe  a  word  about  my 
bavin'i;  been  here  to-iUL^ht." 

"But — but  —  where  are  you  going? 
Do  tell  me  !  " 

"I  can't,  clear;  I  (scarcely  know  myself. 
I  am  leaving  home  forever,  that's  all  I  can 
tell  you,  and  "  — 

'•  Forever  !"  she  walled.  "  O  Osmund  ! 
don't  say  that !     How  wicked  of  you  ! " 

"No,  it  isn't  wicked,  —  it's  right,  Evy. 
You'd  think  so,  if  you  knew  all.  I'm  going 
otF  somewhere,  to  make  a  name  and  fbrtGne 
for  myself,  or  die  in  the  attempt,  as  all 
heroes  do." 

"How  dreadful!  Oh!  how  can  you 
talk  so  V  You'll  never  come  back,  then  ! 
I  shall  never  see  you  again !  "  and  she 
sobbed  bittevly. 

"  Yes,  1  feel  suT^  I  shall,  —  I  shall  come 
back  to  claim  my  little  wife,  if  she  remains 
true  to  me.  You  will  remain  true,  won't 
you,  darling,  though  you  should  not  hear  of 
me  for  a  long,  long  time  ?  " 

"  And  —  vou  —  won't  write  to  me  ?  "  she 
sobbed. 

"1  daren't:  I  should  be  traced.  You 
must  wait  patiently,  and  don't  believe  evil 
of  me,  whatever  they  may  tell  you.  And 
now,  my  pet,  give  me  a  lock  of  your  hair, 
won't  you,  to  keep  next  to  my  heart  as 
long  as  I  live  ?  " 

She  went  to  the  dressing-table,  took  a 
pair  of  scissors,  and  clipi)ed  a  tress  of  the 
long  brown  hair,  close  to  its  roots. 

"Tie  something  round  it  —  wrap  it  in 
paper,  and  drop  it  on  the  grass." 

With  that  I  scrambled  to  the  ground,  as 
noiselessly  as  1  could  ;  but  the  bough  shook, 
and  the  scraping  of  my  heels,  as  I  slid 
down  the  trunk,  irritated  that  infernal  little 
terrier,  and  he  set  up  a  renewed  yelping. 

"  Be  quiet !  lloughey,  be  quiet,  naughty 
dog !  "  cries  weeping  Evy. 

"  Good-by,  my  darling,"  I  whisper  hur- 
riedly under  the  window,  as  I  hear  the 
stable  dog  again  take  up  the  barking  — 
"  if  I  stay  another  minute,  I  shall  be  dis- 
covered." 

She  leant  half  of  her  little  body  out  of 
the  window,  and  wrung  her  hands. 

"  O  Osmund  !  don't  go  —  don't,  dear  !  " 

'•  Hush  !  God  bless  you !  The  house  is 
aroused  ;  I  must  be  oil!"  And  I  took  to 
my  heels.- 

And  now  that  I  had  seen  my  little  dar- 
ling, and  had  bidden  her  a  long  good-by, 
my  thoughts  concentrated  themselves  on 
my  next  step.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  An 
active  life,  a  life  in  whicli  there  should,  if 
}iossil)le,  be  fighting  and  adventure  and 
distinction,  and  certainly  no  desk-work,  a 
career  in  which  I  might  make  a  name  for 
myself,  while  my  real  one  should  remain 


forever  unknown,  —  this  was  what  I  set  mv 
heart  on.  IMy  plan  was  this.  To  make 
the  best  of  my  way  to  Portsmouth,  and  en- 
list in  one  of  the  regiments  there  under 
orders  for  foreign  service.  If,  for  some 
cause  or  other,  the  scheme  should  not 
answer,  then  I  could  go  on  board  a  man-of- 
war.  In  the  course  of  time,  Evy  and  Mr. 
Francis  should  hear  from  me.  As  to  all 
the  rest  of  the  world,  in  the  bitterness  of 
my  heart,  I  then  declared  I  never  wished 
to  hear  of  my  mother  or  brother  again. 
Does  this  sound  unnatural  ?  Let  no  one 
pronounce  it  so,  whose  affections  have  not 
been  estranged  in  early  youth,  and  who,  at 
eighteen,  with  a  temperament  such  as  mine, 
has  never  become  possessed  of  a  shameful 
secret  which  has  forever  sliattered  the 
founilations  of  his  trust.  I  thought  of  my 
poor  father.  I  thought  how  his  honorable 
nature  would  have  loathed  such  an  act  as 
this,  which  had  set  up  an  impassable  bar- 
rier between  my  mother  and  me  ;  and  I  de- 
clared that  I  belonged  to  him,  and  had  no 
part  in  her,  neither  would  I  have  lot  nor 
inheritance. 

By  daybreak  I  was  out  of  the  forest ; 
and  crossing  the  railroad,  where  it  bisects 
a  wild  district  of  moorland,  I  got  upon  the 
dusty  high-road.  Here,  after  climbing  a 
short  hill,  I  came  to  the  "  Hunter's  Inn," 
and  knocked  up  a  somnolent  individual, 
half  waiter,  half  hostler,  who  brought  me 
some  bread  and  cheese  and  beer.  I  tried 
vainly  to  gather  information  toiK'hing  any 
recruiting  parties  that  might  have  been 
that  way  lately.  Foiled  in  this,  I  did  gain, 
however,  an  exact  knowledge  of  the  dis- 
tance to  Southampton,  and  a  time-table  of 
the  steamers  thence  to  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
For  obvious  reasons  I  desired  to  avoid 
railroads.  The  first  boat  would  enable  me 
to  reach  Portsmouth,  by  the  circuitous  route 
of  Cowes  and  Ryde,  early  in  the  day ;  and 
this  mode  of  transit  I  resolved  to  adopt. 

It  fell  out  much  as  I  had  planned.  My 
farther  journey  was  uneventful.  A  dusty 
stripling  slipped  on  board  the  steamer, 
almost  unobserved,  took  his  place  forward 
as  steerage-passenger,  and  was  landed,  two 
hours  and  a  half  later,  on  the  little  pier  at 
Southsea,  without  recognition  ;  indeed  (he 
was  almost  mortified  to  observe)  without 
exciting  any  attention  or  interest  whatso- 
ever. 

I  had  learnt  from  a  man  on  board   that 

the th,  which   I  had  constantly  heard 

spoken  of  as  one  of  the  crack  regiments  in 
the  service,  was  quartered  in  Hi  1  sea  Bar- 
racks. "They  sail  for  India  in  a  few 
months'  time,  and  are  hard  up,  I'm  told,  for 
recruits,"  my  informant  had  added.  Here 
was  my  opportunity.  I  inquired  my  way 
to   the    barracks,    and   directed   my  steps 


24 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


thither.  A  corporal  at  the  gate  demanded 
my  busines;!,  and  I  told  hiin.  He  eyed  me 
li-om  head  to  tiiot,  said  I  was  ■' a  willowy 
sort  of  a  ohap,"  and  called  for  the  ser<;eant 
of  the  truard.  I  knew  that  heroes  oiufht  to 
have  an  iidierent  nobility  of  aspect  that 
betrays  their  birth ;  but,  ai)parently,  I  ran 
no  such  risk.  Tall  tor  my  a^e,  and  thin  to 
spareness,  by  no  means  well-featured,  sun- 
burnt, white  with  dust,  and  wearing  a  pair 
of  old  "  hiiih-lows,"  which,  in  the  course  of 
my  night's  march,  had  broken  out  in  more 
than  one  place,  I  tliink  it  reflects  no  dis- 
credit on  the  corporal's  and  sergeant's 
discernment  that  they  did  not  detect  the 
gentleman  in  the  volunteer  who  presentcil 
himself  for  enlistment. 

I  was  marched  olF  to  the  orderly-room, 
where  the  adjutant,  Mr.  Eagles,  was  dic- 
tating a  letter  to  a  clerk.  The  officer 
waved  his  hand  to  the  sergeant,  to  indicate 
that  my  very  small  matter  of  business  —  to 
wit,  the  being  enrolled  aS  a  soldier'in  Her 
Majesty's  service  —  must  stand  aside  until 
the  completion  of  this  important  document. 
I  listened  with  some  curiosity  to  the  first 
letter  "  O.  H.  M.  S."  I  had  ever  heard ; 
but  I  could  make  little  of  it.  The  sub- 
ject, as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  was 
pouches  ;  but  then  the  subject  was  poured 
out,  so  to  speak,  with  such  a  head  on  it 
that  it  was  difficult  to  get  to  it  for  the 
froth.  Such  a  bewildering  mass  of  "  hon- 
ors," past,  present,  and  to  come,  with,  "  I 
am  directed  by's,"  and,  "  with  reference 
to's,"  such  involutions  of  speech,  such  a  bog 
of  adverbs  and  ])repositions,  as  rendered  it 
hard  to  pick  one's  way  through  to  any  solid 
foundation  of  meaning.  JNIr.  Eagles,  whose 
personal  appearance  1  had  thus  ample  time 
to  study,  was  an  absurd-looking  youn'T  man, 
with  an  assumption  of  military  ferocity 
which  sat  but  ill  on  his  receding  brow, 
vacuous  eyes,  and  lobster-claw-like  nose. 
He  was  a  good-natured  creature,  as  I  after- 
wards found  ;  but  five  minutes  were  enough 
to  show  me  that  he  was  empty  as  a  broken 
bottle,  and  inordinately  vain.  He  believed 
himself  to  be  an  embryo  Wellington.  His 
zeal  in  the  service  was  indued  untiring, 
and  he  was  not  a  bad  "  drill."  In  a  regi- 
ment where  rich  and  indolent  young  men 
abounded,  with  but  few  soldiers  at  heart 
among  them,  these  qualities  had  procured 
him  the  adjutantcy  ;  and,  in  spite  of  some 
just  ridicule  from  both  officers  and  men,  I 
must  confess  that  he  filled  the  duties  of  his 
post  better  than  any  other  man  in  the 
th  would  have  done. 

At  the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  hav- 
ing completed  his  missive,  he  veered  round 
in  his  cliair.  He  then  knit  his  brows,  and 
pulled  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  in  a 
liashion  that  was  meant  to  intimidate  the 


recruit,  but  which  well-nigh  provoked  in  me 
an  unseendy  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Now  then,  sir,  what's  your  name?  " 

"  Jeames  Zmitli." 

"  Snath  V  Hm  I  Where  do  you  come 
from  V     That's  a  London  name." 

'"  I  da  come  pearlly  from  Darsetshire." 

"  Partly  !  What  do  you  mean  by  part- 
ly V" 

"  Feather  come  vrom  Darsetshire.  Moth- 
er "  — 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  about  your 
mother,  sir  "  (fiercely).  "  What's  your 
age  V  " 

"  Risin'  nineteen  — come  next  fall." 

"  Next  fall !  What  does  he  mean  ?  Gad! 
what  a  dialect!  And  what  have  you  been 
doiu'j;  ? 

"A-workiu  in  the  vields,  and  a-pickin' 
stonniis." 

'■Humph!  You're  strong,  eh?  And 
you  don't  drink  ?  " 

"  I  likes  a  zwig  o'  swipes  by-times,"  said 
I,  with  my  tongue  in  my  cheek  ;  "  but  I 
ain't  a-givin'  to  drinkin'.  I'm  sprak  with 
my  vists,  and  can  litt  a  goodish  weight ; 
and  "  — 

"  There  that'll  do.  You're  glib  enough 
with  your  tongue,  youngster.  Gad  !  what 
a  dialect !  March  him  off  to  the  surgeon, 
and  report  to  me  whether  he  passes  the 
medical  examination !  " 

This  little  comedy,  which  was  almost  an 
impromptu  device  of  mine  to  disarm  suspi- 
cion as  to  my  birth  or  antecedents,  had 
succeeded  admirably  so  fiir.  I  was  as  famil- 
iar with  the  peasants'  dialect  as  with  my 
own,  and  had  often  talked  it  with  them. 
Its  assumption  on  this  occasion  had  but 
one  drawback,  which  I  had  not  duly 
weiii;hed.  Nothing  less  than  the  power  of 
a  liurton  or  a  Vanbery  could  enable  me  to 
act  this  part  consistently,  without  flaw  or 
fbrgetfulness,  day  after  day,  month  after 
month. 

That  same  afternoon,  havinij  piasscd  the 
medical  examination,  I  was  enrolled  in 
Her  Majesty's  service,  as  a  private  in  the 
th. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

I  HAVE  never  regretted  the  step  I  then 
took.  I  know  that  the  next  few  months 
of  my  life,  trying  as  they  were  in  many  ways, 
disciplined  me  in  some  measure,  taught  me 
more  tolerance  and  self-restraint  than  I 
should  ever  have  learnt  at  Beaunumoir. 
.\nd  thougih,  to  a  lad  nurtured  as  I  had 
been,  the  transition  from  smooth  things  to 
rough,  fi'om  culture  to  neglect,  from  refine- 
ment to  brutality,  was  distasteful  enough 
to  well-nitrh  sicken  him  with  his  dream  of 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


25 


«  glory,"  yet  this  condition  of  life,  like  most 
others,  had  its  lesson  to  teach  ;  and  I  learnt 
it,  though  slowly,  and  never  perhaps  very 
perfectly. 

I  got  a  sound  thrashing  from  a  stalwart 
lance-corporal,  for  being  "  cheeky,"  before 
I  had  been  three  days  in  the  regiment ; 
and  on  the  only  two  occasions  when  I  was 
placed  under  arrest,  it  was  for  "  answer- 
ing "  a  supei'ior  olllcer.  As  long  as  I  was  a 
recruit,  I  saw  but  little  of  the  company  to 
■which  I  was  attached,  but  I  soon  left  the 
"  awkward  squad  "  behind  me.  There  was 
small  merit  in  this,  as,  from  the  age  of  ten 
to  fifteen,  I  had  been  drilled  every  week  by 
a  sergeant  imported  from  Dorchester  ;  but 
as  1  naturally  did  not  communicate  this  lit- 
tle fact,  I  got  more  credit  than  I  deserved 
when  I  "  passed"  after  a  few  weeks,  wliile 
my  fellows  were  still  at  the  "  goose-step." 

A  yet  more  surprising  feat,  however,  — 
so  marvellous,  indeed,  as  to  be  incredible, 
it  now  appears  to  me,  to  any  one  of  the 
most  ordinary  acuteness  —  was  the  rapidity 
with  which  I  dropped  my  Dorsetshire  dia- 
lect, and  accpiired  a  pure  P^nglish  accent 
I  found  that  the  men  paid  so  little  heed  to 
my  pronunciation,  that  I  gradually  slipped 
back  into  a  natural  way  of  talking  ;  and 
only  when  the  adjutant  chanced  to  address 
me, did  I, partly  from  fun,  a  little  from  dread 
of  detection,  resume  a  slight  llavor  of  rus- 
tic Dorset,  in  order  to  elicit  his,  "  Gad  ! 
what  a  dialect  !  " 

The  men  in  my  company  chaffed  me 
about  my  scrupulous  cleanliness,  and  certain 
habits,  which,  greatly  to  my  annoyance, 
procured  me  the  nick-name  of  "  Gen'ieman 
Smith."  They  were  not  bad  fidlows,  with 
a  few  exceptions  (notably,  a  man  in  the 
next  bud  to  mine,  whom  1  found  trying  to 
steal  some  money  from  under  my  pillow  at 
night,  and  to  whom  I  gave  two  black  eyes 
for  his  pains,  which  summary  act  of  jus- 
tice raised  me  in  the  estimation  of  my  com- 
rades more  than  the  legitimate  course  of  a 
formal  accusation  of  theft  would  have  done). 
But  though  1  got  on  well  enough  with  them, 
there  were  times  when  I  suffered  from 
the  enforced  companionship  of  men  whose 
conversation  was  too  often  spiced  with 
ribaldry  and  indecency.  I  did  not  pretend 
to  be  any  better  than  my  neighbors,  but 
such  language  was  always  utterly  repug- 
nant to  me  ;  and,  whenever  it  was  used  in 
my  prestmce,  I  left  the  room  if  I  possibly 
could.  On  one  occasion,  I  flew  into  a  pas- 
sion, and  told  them  they  were  a  set  of 
beasts,  and  only  fit  to  be  with  liogs,  not 
Christians.  Of  course  I  was  well  laughed  at 
for  my  pains ;  and  yet  I  think  there  were 
some  among  them  (especially  one  whom  1 
shall  name  presently)  who  respected  me 
for  my  boldness. 


Drink  was  their  besetting  temptation  ; 
but,  notwithstanding  my  statement  to  the 
adjutant,  it  was  a  temptation  I  resisted 
easily.  The  allurements  of  the  fair  sex, 
1  might  liave  found  more  dangerous,  but 
that  my  heart  was  case-hardened  by  the 
soft  brown  curl  that  lay  next  to  it,  and 
that  the  bold  advances  of  the  young  dam- 
sels whom  my  companions  found  attractive 
were  repulsive  to  me.  Modesty  and  gen- 
tleness, these  I  always  regarded  as  the  first 
and  indispensable  charms  in  a  woman ; 
without  them,  however  much  my  senses 
uiiglit  be  captivated,  my  heart  could  never 
be  touched. 

Comrades,  if  any  of  you  should  ever  read 
these  lines,  will  you  think  that  I  have  done 
you  scant  justice  ?  The  memory  of  many 
generous  actions  rises  up  as  I  write  :  how 
you  helped  one  another  in  siclcn(!ss ;  how 
you  stuck  to  one  another  in  scrapes  ;  how, 
whenever  a  married  man  died,  each  pri- 
vate in  his  company  cheerfully  subscribed 
a  day's  pay  for  the  widow  ;  and  how,  with 
all  the  little  children  swarming  up  and 
down  our  barrack  stairs,  I  have  often  seen 
one  of  these  rough  fellows  take  the  tender- 
est  care  of  the  tiny  creatures,  carrying 
thara  on  his  back,  guiding  their  toddling 
feet,  and  giving  tliem  their  earliest  instruc- 
tions as  to  the  sucking  of  lollipops. 

And  this  brings  me  to  speak  of  the  only 
man  with  whom  I  grew  to  be  on  any  terms 
of  intimacy.  Joe  Carter  was  many  years 
my  senior,  and  by  no  means  the  best  char- 
acter in  the  company.  He  had  twice  been 
made  lance-corporal,  by  reason  of  liis 
smartness  and  soldierly  bearing,  and  each 
time  had  been  reduced  to  the  ranks.  DriutC 
was  his  bane  :  not  that  he  was  an  habitual 
d^runkard ;  but,  every  two  or  three  months, 
the  devil  that  was  in  liim  got  the  upper 
hand,  and  —  to  use  his  own  phrase  —  he  was 
•'  overtaken."  But  for  this,  he  would  have 
been  a  color-sergeant  long  since,  for  he  was 
undeniably  a  better  soldier,  and  Iiad  far 
more  brains,  than  most  of  the  non-commis- 
sioned officers.  He  was  tall,  with  a  shrewd 
gray  eye,  and  a  thi  n-lipped,  whimsical  mouth, 
from  which  fell  many  a  sharp,  quaint  say- 
ing, which  evoked  a  laugh  from  the  room. 
His  observation  was  singularly  acute,  and 
he  spared  no  one.  He  lashed  us  all  round 
with  his  small  thongs  of  ridicule  ;  and  yet  no 
one  but  blackguards  dislik«d  him.  In  an- 
other rank  of  life,  I  incline  to  think  he  would 
have  been  a  consummate  dandy  ;  as  it  was 
(mark  the  line  that  divides  the  virtue  fi'om 
the  weakness  1),  he  took  what  is  termed  "  a 
pride  in  his  appearance."  His  boots,  his 
belt,  his  accoutrements,  were  always  spot- 
less ;  he  would  rub  away  at  a  piece  of 
brass  till  it  shone  like  gold  :  and  the  regula- 
tion two  inches  of  whisker  upon  the  other- 


26 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


wise  close-shorn  face  was  snrmountiMl  liy  a 
whisp  of  well-oileil  linir.  which  appeared 
bei\eath  the  Ibrage  cap,  and  adorned  the 
temple.  *• 

He  was  rnu2,h,  and  could  use  unnecessa- 
rily stmn.;-  lan;j;nai^e  when  roused  ;  but  he 
had  a  kind  heart,  and  was  capable,  as  I 
learnt  in  time,  of  very  faithful  attachment. 
But  he  was  not.  married,  nor  ever  likely  to 
niari'y,  for  he  ailed ed  to  hold  the  institu- 
tion of  matrimony  in  abhorrence,  and  con- 
stantly averred  that  the  less  men  had  to 
do  wiili  women  the  better  for  their  welfare 
in  this  world,  wiiatever  it  miL:;ht  be  in 
the  next.  Yet  no  one  so  kind  to  the  little 
children  as  Joe.  The  brats  that  couUl 
scarce  walk  would  totter  up  to  him,  and 
clutch  his  lbre(inL];er,  (;onscious  that  there 
they  woidd  find  protection  and  support ; 
and  the  slatternly  mother,  rushing  out 
wildly  in  the  barrack-square  after  her  olf 
spring,  would  retire,  comforted,  on  seeing  it 
in  the  custody'Ot  the  stalwart  Joe. 

The  circumstance  that  first  attracted  uu' 
towards  him  was  a  trifle  hardly  worth  re- 
cording, but  it  was  characteristiiK  of  the  man. 
One  ni'j;ht,  as  we  were    undressing,  he 
spied  a  sixpence  under  his  bed. 

'•  Who's  lost  sixpence,"  cries  Carter. 
"  Don't  you  all  speak  at  once." 

"  I  have,'"  says  a  fellow  from  the  next 
bed. 

"  What's  he  like  ?  "  pursues  Joe.  "  Has 
he  got  a  hole  through  him  ?  " 

"  Yes :  that's  him,"  returns  the  other 
eagerly. 

"  Ah  !  then  I'm  sorry  :  this  ain't  your'n," 
says  Joe,  with  a  laugh. 

I  observed  a  recruit,  just  joined,  feiding 
his  pockets  anxiously.  Not  without  evi- 
dent trepidation,  the  lad  muttered,  "  It's 
niine  :  there's  a  hole  in  my  pocket."  (His 
"  kit  "  had  not  yet  been  given  out.) 
Joe  eyed  the  recruit  severely. 
"You're  a  nice  chap,  a-comiug  here  with 
holes  in  your  j^ocket,  dropping  your  dirty 
money  about,  and  tempting  fellows  to  steal  ; 
but  here,  catch  your  sixpence.  I  see  you're 
not  lying,  like  that  dirty  thief  there." 

And  so,  by  Joe's  astuteness,  the  lad  re- 
gained his  own. 

How  this  veteran,  often  years'  standing, 
first  came  to  notice  and  patronize  a  young- 
ster like  me,  I  scarcely  know,  such  alli- 
ances being  most  unusual.  I  believe  it  began 
by  my  contradicting  him,  and  that  led  to 
an  argument.  Now,  nothing  Joe  Carter 
loved  more  than  an  argument ;  but  his 
tongue  was  recognized  as  so  potent  a  weap- 
on that  few  cared  to  encounter  it. 

'•  You  weren't  behind  the  door  when 
check  was  served  out,"  he  said,  scanning 
me  curiously.  "And  as  i'orjaw! — you'd 
jaw  an  ass's  hind  leg  olf." 


"  Lucky   you   haven't    a   hind    leg,"    I 
laughed. 

He   seized  me  —  in  perfect  good-humor 

—  by  the  "scrulf"  of  the  neck,  held  me 
up,  twisted,  and  then  dropped  me.  I  was 
a  mere  child  in  his  ])owerfLd  grip.  From 
that  day  forward,  I  know  that  he  liked  me, 
though  he  certainly  never  showed  it  by 
any  increased  civility  —  rather  the  contra- 
ry. But  I  could  appreciate  his  grim  hu- 
mor ;  ami,  on  the  other  hand,  he  relished 
my  fearlessness  of  speech  ;  indeed,  between 
us  there  existed  what,  in  another  rank  of 
life,  would  have  been  styled  "  a  sympathy  " 

—  though  Joe  would  not  have  understood 
the  term.  I  was  the  target  of  his  frequent 
ridicule,  and  his  strictures  upon  me  were 
more  severe  than  upon  any  other  young 
fellow  in  the  company ;  but  they  were 
prompted,  as  I  well  knew,  by  the  interest 
he  felt  in  my  welfare  ;  and  I  never  resent- 
ed them. 

"  There  ye  go,  like  a  goose  in  the  stub- 
ble, with  y'r  chin  foremost,"  he  cried  out, 
sometimes,  as  1  walked  across  the  barrack- 
square  ;  and  again,  "  Don't  ye  turn  y'r 
toes  out,  man,  as  though  you  were  a  quad- 
rilling,  nor  yet  cock  'em  up  that  fashion. 
This  ain't  a  boot-inspection,  and  no  one 
wants  to  see  the  soles  o'  y'r  feet,  as  I  knows 
on."  But  my  want  of  order  and  neatness 
was  the  object  of  his  most  sarcastic  and 
vehement  protest.  The  sight  of  my  "  kit," 
in  which  shirts  and  blacking-brushes,  socks, 
pipe-clay,  bath-brick,  and  boots  lay  tossed 
in  a  wild  pell-mell,  stirred  his  bile. 
•'  That's  a  neat  knapsack,  that  is  1  I'd  lay 
him  out  in  the  barrack-square  for  a  model, 
if  I  was  you  !  You'll  be  a  nice  chiip  on 
the  march,  with  a  hump  on  your  back  like 
a  dvomeifari/." 

Thus  did  my  education,  in  one  impor- 
tant respect,  advanK;e  under  Private  Joseph 
Carter. 

"  When  we  lay  in  Waterford,"  said  my 
new  friend  to  me  one  day,  "  there  was  a 
young  swell  as  wanted  me  to  be  his  walet. 
I'm  a'most  sorry  I  didn't  cut  the  ser- 
vice." 

'•  Cut  the  service  ?  O  Joe,  and  you 
such  a  soldier  at  heart  as  you  are  ! " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  young  un,  ambi- 
tion and  all  that  is  very  fine  words;  but 
they  loses  a  deal  o'  their  meaning  after  tea 
years'  service,  and  never  a  good-conduct 
stripe." 

"  Whose  fault  is  that  ?  "  said  I  boldly. 
"If  you  didn't  drink  "  — 

"  Oh  1  if  we  was  all  angels,  we  should 
have  a  fine  time  of  it  up  aloft,  shouldn't 
we,  a-bolstering  of  each  other  with  them 
feather-bed  clouds  ?  Oh,  yes !  But  not 
being  angels,  unfort'nately,  we  like  a  drop 
o'  drink  sometimes.     I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is, 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


27 


it's  just   a  slavery  ;  and   I'd  as  soon  be  a 
black-born  nifr^er." 

"  Ni'.ro'i;rs  are  flogged,  Joe." 

"  AVell,  and  so  are  sodgers." 

"  And  tlien,  think  of  the  honor  of  serv- 
ing your  country  !  " 

"  Oh  !  the  honor  be  blowed  !  " 

"  Well,  honor  is  said  to  be  a  bubble,"  — 
at  whifh  Joe  laughed. 

The  company  was  commanded  by  Capt. 
Patterson,  a  man  about  whom  I  need 
say  nothing.  With  the  lieutenant,  how- 
ever, I  have  much  to  do,  both  now  and 
hereafter.  Uis  name  was  Mr.  Arthur 
Tufton,  and  he  was  the  nephew  of  a  lord 
(this  last  fact  I  did  not  learn  till  long  after^ 
wards).  He  was  tall,  blonde,  and  very 
handsome  ;  but  there  was  a  charm  about 
his  voice  and  manner  far  beyond  the  mere 
graces  of  person.  Every  private  in  the 
company,  I  believe,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously, experienced  this.  When  Ensign 
Andrews  inspected  their  kits,  the  men 
made  faces  behind  that  yc-ung  oflicer's 
back ;  but  I  never  heard  a  disrespectful 
word,  or  saw  a  disrespectful  look,  having 
the  lieutenant  for  its  object. 

How  shall  I  describe  him  ?  If  I  did  so 
as  he  appeared  to  me  during  those  first 
mo;iths  in  which  we  came  into  no  close 
contact  with  each  other,  I  should  say  he 
was  the  most  perfect  gentleman  I  hid  ever 
seen  up  to  that  time  —  the  embodiment 
of  one  of  Vandvck's  high-bred  heroes,  as  I 
knew  them  at  AV'ilton,  and  other  ancestral 
houses.  •  But  it  will  be  better  to  indicate 
at  once  such  points  of  his  character  as  I 
only  came  to  learn  in  the  course  of  time ; 
they  will  be  more  fully  wrought  out  in  the 
course  of  this  narrative. 

He  possessed  the  sweetest  temper,  the 
kindest  heart,  and  the  best  judgment  —  in 
all  that  did  not  concern  himself —  of  any 
man  I  have  ever  known,  always  except- 
ing my  day-tutor,  Francis.  He  was  the 
one  in  the  regiment  to  whom  all  his  broth- 
er-officers, both  old  and  young,  confided 
their  troubles,  of  whatever  kind.  And 
yet  in  the  conduct  of  his  own  affairs,  he 
daily  showed  himself  disastrously  unwise. 
He  was  a  confirmed  gand^ler.  It  was  the 
one  baneful  gilt  which  aj)parently  the 
malevolent  fairy  had  thrown  in,  when  so 
many  graces  had  been  showered  on  him  at 
his  birth.  He  sat  up  till  daybreak,  night 
after  night,  playing  at  chicken-hazard 
or  Ijliiid-hookey,  apparently  unmoved 
whether  he  lost  or  won  ;  and  always  on 
parade  the  next  morning,  looking  fresher 
than  any  one.  He  was  often  "  hard  up ;  " 
yet  he  always  paid  his  debts  of  honor 
punctually ;  and  men  wondered  how  he 
got  on.  It  is  true  he  was  not  extravagant. 
Barring  this  disastrous  passion,  he  had  no 


expensive  vices.  He  absolutely  shunned 
society ;  no  arguments  availed  to  induce 
him  to  accept  any  invitation  ;  and  the  com- 
mon report  was  that  he  studiously  avoi<led 
women  of  all  sorts.  lie  used  laughingly 
to  say  that  his  violin  was  liis  wife  —  she 
would  never  grow  old,  nor  would  she  prove 
untrue  to  him ;  he  preferred  her  to  any 
garrison  dame  or  damsel.  He  was,  in 
ti'utli,  devoteil  to  his  instrument;  and,  hour 
after  hour,  when  his  brother-officers  were 
"  killing  time  "  by  flirting  with  the  girls  at 
the  ])astry-cook's,  he  was  f;ir  away  in  a 
world  of  his  own,  with  Bach  and  Scarlatti. 
Never,  till  darkness  came  on,  did  his  evil 
genius  take  possession  of  him. 

I  had  been  in  the  service  about  three 
months,  when  the  lieutenant  sent  to  speak 
to  me  one  morning.  His  servant,  as  I  knew, 
had  been  ordered  back  to  the  ranks  the 
previous  night  for  drunkenness  ;  but  I  was 
fiir  from  being  prepared  for  the  offer  which 
was  about  to  be  made  to  me. 

He  was  playing  the  violin  as  I  entered. 
He  did  not  lay  it  down,  but  leant  against 
the  mantle-piece,  and,  transferring  the  in- 
strument to  liis  right  hau'l,  rested  it  against 
his  thigli  as  he  spoke.  The  quiet  grace  and 
mastery  of  the  attitude  Avere  in  harmony 
with  his  manner  as  he  said,  — 

"  You  are  a  smart,  active  young  fellow  — 
are  jou  inclined  to  be  my  servant  ?  " 

I  was  so  taken  aback,  that  I  stared  va- 
cantly for  a  moment.  At  last  I  blurted 
out,  — 

"  No,  sir." 

Mr.  Tufton  smiled. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to  stick  in  the 
ranks  all  my  life,  sir :   I  want  to  rise." 

'•  Oh  1  you  are  ambitious,  are  you  V  Well, 
that  is  a  very  good  thing ;  but  your  being 
my  servant  for  a  few  months  shall  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  your  promotion.  In 
March  the  regiment  is  under  orders  for  for- 
eign service  and  I  shall  be  left  at  home 
with  the  depot.  You  will  certainl\'  not  be 
made  lance-corporal  before  then.  If  you  be- 
have well,  and  are  steady,  your  having 
served  me  shall  be  no  drawback  to  you." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  service,  sir,  and 
should  make  a  bad  servant,"  said  I,  color- 
ing. 

He  eyed  me  curiously. 

"  Not  worse  than  another,  I  suppose. 
What  did  you  do  before  }ou  enlisted  V  " 

"  N(jthing." 

"  But  you  write  a  good  hand,  and  have 
received  some  education,  I  should  fancy. 
AVould  you  like  t<j  be  in  the  orderly-room  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  !  I  couldn't  bear  desk-work  : 
that's  why  I  enlisted." 

"  You  will  have  no  desk-work  as  my  ser- 
vant." 


28 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


I  was  silent. 

"  May  I  tliink  over  it,  sir  ?  "  I  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lieutenant,  taking  tlie 
violin  ap;ain  in  his  left  hand,  and  puttinu; 
himself  into  jilavin'^  position  ;  "  but  conic 
back  in  an  lioui-.  Smith,  and  tell  me  that 
it's  all  right.  You  won't  regret  your  decis- 
ion." 

I  went  out  on  the  ramparts,  and  sat  down 
on  a  bit  of  wall  overiookiu'^  the  sea,  and 
asked  myself  what  I  should  do  ?  My  pride 
kicked  a;j:ainst  becomin<f  any  man's  servant : 
that  was  the  truth.  This  was  not  the  dream 
of  olory  I  had  before  my  eyes  when  1 
enlisted.  But  had  the  reality,  so  fixr,  cor- 
responded to  the  dream  ?  And  what  im- 
mediate prospect  was  there  of  any  hard 
fightinjr,  and  of  my  winning  my  spurs  by 
personal  prowess  ?  1  had  taken  part  in  some 
hot,  dusty,  field-days  on  Southsea  Common, 
it  is  true  ;  but  the  commanding  officer  had 
failed  to  be  struck  with  my  claims  to  dis- 
tinction on  these  occasions;  except  once, 
indeed,  when  he  hallooed  out  to  Capt.  Pat- 
terson to  inquire  who  "  that  lubber  "  was, 
who  was  sloj)ing  arms  whe3i  he  ought  to  be 
carrvinii  them  !  We  were  2;oin2:  on  foreign 
service  in  six  months'  time  ;  but  there  hap- 
pened to  be  peace  all  over  the  world  just 
then,  and  I  could  hardly  expect  that  a  lit- 
tle war  would  be  got  up,  especially  for  my 
own  gratification.  I  must  go  on  with  a 
routine  of  daily  duty,  which  I  began  secret- 
ly to  confess  to  myself  was  very  wearisome, 
in  company  with  a  set  of  men  with  whom  1 
had  few,  if  any,  ideas  in  common  ;  and, 
as  the  lieutenant  had  pointed  out,  there 
could  be  no  change  or  amelioration  in  this 
order  of  things,  for  some  time  to  come. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  I  pocketed  my  pride, 
and  became  Lieut.  Tufton's  servant,  1 
should  be  relieved  from  a  constant  compan- 
ionship which  was  irksome  to  me,  and  at 
least  breathe  tlie  atmosphere  of  a  gentleman 
and  a  man  of  refinement ;  and  if  he  should 
really  interest  himself  in  my  advancement, 
I  could  not  doubt  that  his  good  offices 
would  prove  very  valuable  to  me.  These 
mixed  motives  led  to  my  decision.  I  re- 
turned within  the  hour,  and  told  Mr.  Tuf- 
ton  that  I  would  be  his  servant. 

"  If  you  don't  keep  your  master's  things 
no  better  nor  y'r  own,  you'll  make  a  nice 
servant !  "  said  Joe,  when  he  heard  of  it. 

"  I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,"  I 
said. 

"  Um  !  The  oM  un's  pretty  blotty.  I 
wouldn't  take  something  to  wear  a  pair  of 
boots  o'  your  cleaning." 

"  What  bothers  me,"  said  T,  affecting  to 
ignore  this  last  disparaging  remark,  '-is 
about  getting  on.  I'm  afraid  it  mayn't  be 
so  quick.  Can  a  chaj)  have  leave  to  marry 
when  he's  a  full  corporal,  Joe  ?  " 


"  Marry  !  "  said  Private  Carter,  opening 
his  eyes  wide,  "  why,  you  young  jackanapes, 
what  the  Dickens  do  yon  mean  ?  You  ain't 
a-thinking  o'  marrying  ?  " 

"  Of  coiu'se  I  am.  I  think  every  fellow 
ought  to  marry,  as  soon  as  he  can  —  and 
it's  a  beastly  shame  having  rules  in  the 
armv  to  prevent  it." 

"  Oh  !  I'd  write  to  the  horse-guards  if  I 
was  you.  Marry,  indeed !  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is.  A  woman's  like  a  mill-stone 
hanged  round  a  fellow's  neck.  He  may  as 
well  drown  hisself  at  once.  The  world  'd 
be  a  deal  liettcr  without  women  at  all,  that's 
my  belief." 

"  And  I  think  life  wouldn't  be  worth  hav- 
ing without  them  ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  Joe, 
that  I  mean  to  marry  as  soon  as  ever  "  — 
here  I  stopped,  and  turned  away,  deeming 
it  more  prudent  not  to  commit  myself 
further. 

"  I'd  wait  till  I  was  a  general,  if  I  was 
you,"  cried  Joe  sarcastically. 

I  had  no  reason  to  repent  of  my  decision. 
The  advantages  which  I  had  looked  to  in 
entering  ]\Ir.  Tufton's  service  were  not  illu- 
sory. ]\Iy  duties  were  light,  and  I  had 
much  more  time  to  myself  in  which  to  read 
and  write.  Finding  that  I  preferred  books 
to  the  attractions  of  the  canteen,  the 
lieutenant  lent  me  Napier's  '-Peninsular 
^Var,"  "  The  Life  of  Wellington,"  and  oth- 
er books  of  military  life  which  were  new  to 
me.  I  became  every  day  more  attached  to 
him  ;  and  though,  as  I  gradually  learnt  the 
passion  which  was  the  bane  of  his  life,  my 
respect  may  have  diminished,  my  interest 
in  him  only  increased. 

And  this,  for  some  unexplained  reason, 
seemed  to  be  reciprocal.  He  often  talked 
to  me,  and  asked  my  opinion  upon  various 
matters  (appearing  to  be  amused  by  my 
straightforward  answers,  and  always  evin- 
cing considerable  curiosity  as  to  my  past 
lite),  in  a  way  very  different  from  that  in 
which  the  other  officers  spoke  to  their  ser- 
va.nts ;  but  then  Arthur  Tufton  was  as 
unlike  his  broth er-ofhcers  as  I  was  unlike 
other  servants.  Whenever  I  happened  to 
hear  any  of  these  gentlemen's  conversations, 
which  I  often  did,  I  was  struck  with  the 
contrast.  I  do  not  know  what  the  army  may 
be  now  :  at  the  time  I  speak  of  it  was  not  a 
school  of  self-culture ;  and  Tufton  was  the 
only  man  who  read  any  thing  beyond  a 
novel,  or  had  atiy  aspirations  towards  the 
better  things  whicli  were  out  of  reach. 

I  am  wrong.  Mr.  Eagles,  the  adju- 
tant, believed  that  he  had  such  aspirations, 
—  nay,  more,  that  he  had  attainments  of 
a  deep  and  varied  kind,  whicli  he  lost  no 
opportunity  of  airing.  The  tongue  of  the 
ancient  Greek  or  the  modern  Frank,  it 
was  all  one  to   him,  and  very  astounding 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


29 


tliintrs  were  spoken  in  tlieii-  name.  The 
chronicle  of  his  good  sayings  in  the  regi- 
ment woukl  have  filled  a  book ;  but  while 
his  sallies  Avere  greeted  by  derisive  shouts 
from  every  young  ensign,  fresh  from  the 
schools,  Tulton,  one  of  the  few  men  who 
conld  always  have  set  him  right,  never 
did  more  tiian  smile  good-naturedly,  and 
say,  "  Bravo  !  Bird." 

I  remember  on  one  occasion  the  adju- 
tant's standing  at  Tufton's  window,  which 
overlooked  part  of  the  town,  and  drawing 
down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  with  a  ru- 
minating air,  as  he  exclaimed, — 

"  This  always  remnds  me  of  a  favorite 
passage  in  Homer  :  01  -KoXkoi,  or  '  many  a 
well-inhabited  city  ! '  " 

I  was  putting  away  my  master's  clothes 
at  the  moment,  and  was  seized  with  such 
an  unaccountable  fit  of  laughter  that  Mr. 
Tufton,  and  two  officers  who  were  present, 
though  they  were  laughing  themselves, 
could  not  fall  to  observe  it.  I  instantly 
left  the  room  ;  but  from  the  adjoining  closet, 
where  I  kept  ]Mr.  Tufton's  things,  I  heard 
him  exclaim, — 

"  Really,'  Bird,  you  mustn't  indulge  in 
classical  quotation  before  Smith.  I  sus- 
pect he  knows  more  Greek  than  either  of 
us ;  and  you'll  teach  him  to  be  disrespect- 
ful." 

"  Greek,  indeed  !  A  Dorsetshire  lout 
like  that!  You  spoil  him,  Tufton — de- 
struction of  discipline.  With  one's  ser- 
vant, as  —  as  Shakspeare  says,  one's  com- 
munications  should    be   'yea  and   nay.'" 

"That's  in  Macbeth,  isn't  it?"  said 
Tufton  demurely. 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  know  it  ?  There's 
nothing  like  Shakspeare,  —  so  true,  you 
know, — eh?  As  to  that  very  queer  fish 
you've  chosen  as  a  servant,  Tufton,  I  don't 
like  his  look  ;  I  didn't  from  the  first,  —  I 
told  you  so.  Cheeky  —  decidedly  cheeky, 
and  low  —  very  low  —  quite  one  of  the 
canal.''^ 

"  That  would   account   for   his   being  a 
! " 

a   dialect !     Talk  of  edu- 
cation, when  a  man  talks  like  that !  " 

"  My  dear  Bird,  he  was  chaffing  you. 
He  can  talk  better  English  than  most  men 
in  the  regiment.  In  short,  far  from  being 
what  you  suppose,  I  believe  that  he  is,  — 
But  never  mind  what  my  private  belief  is  : 
he  isn't  a  fool,  depend  on  it,  nor  a  knave 
either." 

Mr.  Eagles  received  this  with  an  ex- 
pression of  profound  pity  for  his  fi-iend's 
delusion  ;  but  I,  while  pleased  that  Mr. 
Tufton  should  "  stick  up  "  for  me,  was  by 
no  means  so  well  satisfied  to  perceive  that 
he  had  some  suspicion  of  my  real  condi- 
tion.    After  that  I  made  no  more  displays 


queer  fish 
"Gad!  what 


of  my  slender  erudition  when  he  addressed 
me. 

An  instance  of  his  kindness,  which  tend- 
ed to  endear  the  lieutenant  to  me,  may 
here  be  cited. 

Not  many  weeks  after  I  had  become  his 
servant,  I  caught  a  feverish  attack,  which 
sent  me  to  the  hospital.  Our  Scotch  sur- 
geon, who  examined  me,  said  there  was 
'•  no  tellin'  rightly  hoo  it  might  turn  out 
with  the  lad.  Aiblins  it  might  be  putrid 
fever;  for,  ye  see,"  —  turning  to  Tufton, 
who  stood  by,  — "  whan  the  wind's  i' 
the  east,  as  it's  bin  this  week  past,  the 
offal  from  the  butcher's  shop  is  eneugh  to 
breed  any  pestilence.  Ha'  ye  any  disa- 
greeable sensation,  my  mon,  just  i'  the 
peet  of  your  stomach  ?  " 

I  couldn't  say  that  I  hail. 

"  Any  teengling  of  the  ears,  or  deezzi- 
ness  of  sight  ?  " 

No,  I  had  nothing  of  the  sort. 

"  Umph  !  But  ye  have  a  (jueer  sensa- 
tion running  all  down  y'r  leembs  to  y'r 
toes,  may  be  ?  " 

Still  I  could  not  confess  to  the  desired 
sensations.  The  surgeon  stai'ud  at  me, 
and  whistled  softly.  He  was  accustomed 
to  find  raw  recruits  who  felt  as  they  were 
directed.  He  did  not  well  know  what  to 
make  of  me.  I  told  hiui  I  had  a  sore 
throat,  and  headache,  and  felt  hot  and 
thirsty,  —  nothing  more. 

"  Bad  seemptoms,"  said  the  surgeon, 
shaking  his  head  at  Tufton.  "  Ye'd  better 
keep  clear  o'  the  lad  for  a  bit ;  m;iybe 
tliere's  infection.  Best  be  on  the  safe  side, 
eh?"  Then  to  me,  "  Weel,  my  lad,  J'll 
give  ye  something  that'll  soon  set  ye  to 
rights  ;  but  ye'U  have  to  bide  here  for  a 
few  days." 

The  "  something,"  which  was  powerful, 
dark,  and  indescribably  nast}',  —  a  com- 
pound of  sweet  and  salt,  hot  and  bitter,  — • 
did  not  work  so  rapid  a  cure  as  I  could 
have  wished.  I  lay  there  for  several  days, 
really  ill,  and  with  "  seemptoms "  which 
evidently  caused  both  surgeons  some  anx- 
iety as  to  whether  thej'  might  not  be  pre- 
monitory of  an  infectious  fever.  But  the 
lieutenant,  through  it  all,  visited  me  daily, 
undeterred  by  warnings  of  tin;  risk  he  ran. 
He  brought  me  books  and  jiapei-s ;  and  the 
interest  be  took  in  my  recovery  had  its  re- 
ward in  my  gratitude. 

I  had  now  been  nearly  five  months  in 
the  regiment,  and  1  ha^l  not  written  to 
Evy.  This  was  by  far  (he  sorest  trial  I 
had  to  bear,  for  of  course  I  could  hear 
nothing  of  her  unless  I  wrote.  But  I  had 
the  resolution  to  resist  writing,  for  two  rea- 
sons. If  I  iutrustcul  her  with  my  secret, 
the  keeping  it  would  render  her  miserable, 
and  entail  endless  duplicity  with  her  moth- 


30 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


cr;  and  then  there  was  the  p;reat  risk  that 
Mrs.  llamk'i'jh  minht  open  the  letter,  or  that 
the  postmark  woukl  betray  iiio.  I  would 
fain  liave  coinniunieated  with  my  best 
friend,  Francis ;  but  he  had  probably  left 
Beaunianoir,  and  my  letter  nii'jjht  fall  into 
other  ban  Is ;  or,  if  still  an  inmate  there, 
niiiiht  he  not  look  upon  it  as  his  duty  to 
reveal  what  I  confided  to  him  '!  It  was 
noiv  near  Christmas.  In  JNIareh  the  re2;i- 
meat  wouM  sail  tor  India.  On  the  eve  of 
embarkation  1  would  write  to  both  Francis 
and  Evy,  but  not  till  then. 

I  still  iiululired  in  visions  of  a  splendi<l 
future,  ibr  which  I  should  be  behooven  to 
none  but  myself;  but  a  little — just  a  little 
—  of  the  oildins  had  begun  to  be  rubbed 
off.  It  is  the  blessed  property  of  youth, 
however,  to  be  dauntless  and  buoyant. 
Hope  is  his  dominion  ;  the  sceptre  falls 
from  his  hand  too  soon,  but  as  long  as  that 
hand  is  powerful  to  grasp  it,  his  kingdom 
is  a  golden  one,  his  power  omnipotent. 

The  bitterness  of  my  feeling  against  my 
mother  and  brotlier  continued  unabated. 
When  I  thought  of  that  nefarious  transac- 
tion to  which  I  had  been  witness,  my  blood 
boiled  again.  I  could  make  no  allowances 
for  my  mother;  and  as  to  llaymond,  I  held 
him  as  equally  implicated,  and  responsible 
for  my  mother's  deed,  which  was  manifest- 
ly unjust.  I  felt  I  would  rather  be  the 
lowest  of  the  privates  around  me  than  my 
brother,  with  his  stolen  wealth ;  and  in 
my  veiy  darkest  hours,  when  the  prospect 
of  becoming  (leld-marshal  appeared  some- 
what remote,  and  the  company  of  my  asso- 
ciates unusuallv  irksome,  I  never  once 
■wished  mvself  back  at  Beaumanoir,  never 
once  regretted  that  I  had  cut  myself  adrift 
from  my  kith  and  kin. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  here,  as  it  will 
simplify  my  narrative,  what  I  subsequently 
learnt  of  the  steps  that  had  been  taken  to 
trace  me,  and  how  it  came  about  that  tlie\' 
liad  hitherto  failed.  Portsmouth,  bein.^  so 
near  us,  would  have  been  one  of  the  first 
places  the  detectives  would  have  searched, 
had  it  not  been  that  my  mother  and  every 
one  else  was  convinced  that  I  was  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  so  happened 
that  a  few  days  before  I  ran  away  I  had 
been  reading  a  book  upon  California,  and 
had  openly  expressed  a  great  desire  to  go 
there,  declaring  that  the  adventurous  lifti 
at  the  gold-diggings  was  just  what  I  should 
like.  It  was  disco\ered  that  I  had  taken 
a  railway-ticket  to  Southampton  ;  and,  by  a 
curious  coincidence,  a  large  steamer,  over- 
crowded with  passengers  of  all  classes, 
sailed  from  the  docks,  early  the  following 
morning,  for  San  Francisco.  On  inquiry, 
it  was  stated  that  a  young  man  answering 
to  my  description  (descriptions  always  do 


answer  in  such  cases)  had  gone  on  board 
at  the  very  last  moment,  without  other 
luggage  than  a  small  bundle,  and  had  en- 
tered himself  in  the  books  as  a  steerage- 
passenger.  Of' course,  after  that,  no  doubt 
any  longer  existed  as  to  my  destination, 
and  all  further  inquiry  in  England  was 
deemed  useless.  Even  Mr.  Francis  seems 
to  have  accepted  the  hypothesis  as  proved  ; 
and  the  fact  is,  that,  had  I  known  of  the 
steamer,  it  is  probable  I  might  have  fol- 
ic wed  this  very  course.  As  it  was,  they 
telegraphed  to  meet  the  steamer  on  its  ar- 
rival ;  but  natui'ally  there  was  an  interval 
of  nearly  two  months  before  the  answer 
arrived,  declaring  the  non-identitv  of  the 
unknown  passenger  with  Osmund  Penrud- 
docke. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

There  was  a  Jev/  who  used  to  frequent 
the  officers'  quarters  with  jewellery.  I  hated 
this  fellow.  He  was  always  hanging  about, 
bland,  obsequious,  and  per.sistent  in  press- 
ing his  paste  and  pinchbeck  upon  the 
youngsters  who  were  green  enough  to  be 
"  done,"  and  who,  when  their  purses  were 
em[)ty,  in  some  cases  sold  themselves  to 
this  devil  in  promissory  notes.  On  Mr. 
Tuftou's  staircase,  and  just  opposite  his 
room,  lived  one  of  these  vain  and  silly  young 
gentleman,  whose  powers  of  resistance  were 
feeble  when  pearl  studs  and  turquoise  pins 
were  set  before  him,  and  who,  consequently, 
was  an  easy  prey  to  Mr.  Josephs.  Until 
this  ensign  was  sucked  dry,  I  saw  that  the 
Jew  would  never  leave  him  quiet.  He 
tried  several  times  to  get  into  ^Ir.  Tufton's 
room,  but  met  with  a  stout  and  uncivil  re- 
sistance from  me,  and  when,  during  my 
absence,  he  did  effect  an  entry,  with  but 
small  encouragement  from  my  master. 
His  long  yellow  fice,  however,  with  its 
unwholesome  teeth  and  slobbery  under-lip, 
still  disfigured  the  doorway,  the  staircase, 
or  the  landing,  almost  daily.  It  would 
have  interfered  with  the  liberty  of  the  sub- 
j  est  to  have  expelled  him  from  barracks, 
unless  the  feeling  against  him  had  been 
unanimous  ;  but  I  often  wondered  that  the 
colonel  did  not  do  so. 

I  have  spoken  of  a  watch,  as  being  the 
only  thing  of  value  I  had  brought  away 
with  me  from  Beaumanoir,  because  it  had 
been  my  father's,  and  he  had  left  it  to  me. 
No  one  knew  of  its  existence,  so  far  as  I 
was  aware,  but  Joe  Carter.  I  wore  the 
chain  around  my  neck,  but  under  my  shirt, 
so  that  it  could  not  possibly  be  seen.  The 
only  occasions  on  which  I  took  it  off  were 
when  we  wen!;  to  bathing  parade.     As  our 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


31 


clothes  were  tlien  left  on  the  beach,  it  was 
safer — at  least,  I  thony;ht  so — inside  an 
old  chest,  which  Mr.  Tut'ton  gave  me  for 
my  brushes  and  cleaning  things,  and  which 
I  ke])t  in  the  closet  adjoining  his  room. 
This  closet  had  a  separate  door  upon  the 
staircase. 

One  day,  upon  opening  this  chest  (which 
had  no  lock)  on  my  return  from  bathing 
parade,  I  fuund  the  walcli  gone.  I  had 
the  key  of  the  outer  door  in  my  pocket ; 
and  Mr.  Tufton  was  in  his  room,  scraping 
away  at  his  violin  like  mad.  I  ran  in  to 
him,  with  my  face  all  a-fiame. 

"  Sir !  "  1  cried  out,  "  they  have  taken 
my  watch !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Smith  ?  "  He  re- 
mainnd  with  his  bow  suspended. 

"  That  my  watch,  which  I  left  in  the 
chest  there,  has  been  stolen  since  I  was  out. 
Have  you  left  your  room,  sir  ?  " 

"  No  —  yes,  by  the  by,  I  went  over  to  the 
band-master's  for  five  minutes  to  get  a 
piece  of  music,  and  I  remember  leaving  my 
door  unlocked  ;  but  no  one  can  have  come 
in  here.  You  surely  are  mistaken  as  to 
having  left  your  watch  there  V  " 

"  I  am  not  mistaken,  sir.  I  put  the 
watch  inside  the  chest  an  hour  ago,  —  the 
last  thing  before  I  went  on  jiarade." 

He  smiled  incrcduously. 

"  Who  do  you  think  would  come  into  my 
room,  and  take  your  watch  ?  All  my  studs 
and  pins  are  on  the  table,  and  untouched, 
you  see.'' 

He  spoke  vovy  kindl^y  as  he  always  did  ; 
but  I  saw  that  he  thought,  fi'om  my  excited 
manner,  that  1  was  either  drunk  or  under 
some  delusion.  It  tended  in  some  meas- 
ure to  calm  me.  I  remained,  silent  for  a 
moment,  then  said,  — 

'•  You  may  believe  me,  or  not.  sir ;  but 
what  I  say  is  true.  My  watch,  which  I  val- 
ued more  than  any  thing  in  the  woi'ld,  is 
gone." 

"  Who  knew  of  your  having  a  watch  ? 
I  never  saw  you  with  it." 

"  I  wore  it  under  my  shirt.  It  never  left 
me  except  when  I  went  to  bathe.  Some 
fellow  mcnj  have  seen  it ;  but  I  was  always 
careful  to  hide  it." 

"  Well,  this  concerns  me  as  much  as  you, 
Smith ;  and  I  will  see  that  immediate 
steps  "  — 

He  seized  his  forage-cap,  and  was  leav- 
ing the  room,  when  I  called  out,  — 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  would  you 
mind  asking  Mr.  llaikes"  (that  was  the 
name  of  the  ensign  who  lived  op])ositt!), 
"if  Mr.  Josephs  has  been  with  hiai  this 
morning  ?  I  oughtn't  to  suspect  him,  or 
any  one,  I  supjwjse,  without  some  reason ; 
but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  By  Jove  I     I  remember   now  meeting 


the  fellow  as  I  was  crossing  the  square  to 
the  l)andmaster's.  But  ?vlr.  Raikes  is  gone 
to  Ryde  for  tlie  day,  1  know  :  he  couldn't 
have  been  with  him." 

"  But  he  may  have  tried  to  find  him,  sir ; 
and  having  seen  you  out,  and  knowing  that 
tre  were  all  out,  he  may  have  Avalked  in 
here.  He  wouldn't  touch  your  things,  but 
he'd  take  mine;  and  I  remember  now 
that  the  door  was  ajar  one  day.  when  I  was 
winding  my  watch,  and  I  saw  him  look  in." 

"  Go  at  once  to  the  guard-house,  and 
see  if  he  has  passed  out  oithc  barracks." 

I  went,  and  as  good  —  or  ill — luck 
would  have  it,  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
guard-room  I  came  upon  the  scoundrel 
himself,  skulking  along  as  fast  as  his  fiat 
feet  would  shuffle,  with  his  inicjuitous  black 
pack  slung  over  his  shoulder.  He  had 
been  waylaid,  as  I  afterwards  learnt,  by  a 
party  of  subalterns,  who  detained  him 
sorely  against  Mr.  Josephs's  inclination 
no  doubt,  while  they  turned  over  his  wares. 

The  fellow  grew  livid,  as  he  saw  me 
runnins:  towards  him.  Of  course  I  ought 
to  have  told  him  of  my  loss,  and  to  have 
politely  requested  him  to  submit  to  being 
searched ;  but  my  blood  was  u|),  and  I  was 
in  no  humor  to  teni[)orize.  I  seized  him 
as  a  terrier  does  a  rat,  by  the  throat,  and. 
shook  him. 

"  So,  you  infernal  rascal,  you  thought 
you  would  get  oil"  with  my  watch,  did 
you  ?  " 

"  Help  !  —  y  —  help  !  "  bellowed  the 
choking  Josephs. 

With  a  sudden  movement  of  my  knee, 
I  doubled  him  back,  and  brought  him  flat 
on  the  gravel.  The  sergeant,  followed  by 
two  or  three  of  the  guard,  ran  out. 

"  Ilalloo  !  what  the  devil  are  you  about 
there.  Smith  V  " 

"  The  Jew  has  stolen  my  watch,  that's 
all." 

"It'sh  not  true,  Mr.  Sergeant.  Take 
him  of!"  me,  take  him  of!  me  1  I  defy  him 
to  prove  it !  " 

Hereupon  Mr.  Eagles,  who  happened  to 
be  in  the  barrack-yard,  came  up,  and  at 
once  placed  me  under  arrest  for  assaulting 
a  civilian. 

"  Stole  your  watch?  How  do  you  know 
he  stole  your  watch,  sir  V  Did  you  see 
him  V  " 

I  was  constrained  to  say  that  I  did  not, 
but  that  I  believed  firmly  my  watch  was 
in  his  possession. 

"  Believe,  sir  1  —  believe  !  —  what  is 
believing?  Is  that  a  reason  for  assaulting 
a  noxious  man"  (he  meant  innocuous,  I 
suppose ;  but  the  epithet  was  happily 
chosen)  "  in  this  disgraceful  way  ?  " 

I  reallv  doubt  whether  Josc[)hs  would 
have  been  subjected  to  any  search  at  all, 


32 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


but  for  the  intervention  of  my  master,  wlio 
appeared  in  the  guard-room  at  this  nio- 
nu'nt.  At  his  earnest  representation,  a 
poUceman  was  sent  for;  but  before  his  ar- 
rival, Mr.  Josephs,  with  an  audacity  which 
completely  dumbtbunded  me,  otiered  to 
empty  his  jiockets,  to  unroll  his  shining; 
pack  of  jewelry,  to  be  stripped  to  the  skin 
if  the.'-  gentlemensh  "  thought  fit. 

"  It  will  not  be  the  first  time,  Josephs," 
said  a  young  ensign  present.  "  Do  yon 
remen»l)i'r  how  they  tarred  and  feathei'ed 
you  at  NV^eedon,  for  cheating  V  " 

"It  ish  fabh,  Mr.  Clark.  I  give  you 
my  word,  sir  "  — 

'•  Yoiu"  word  !  Come,  turn  out  your 
pockets,"  cried  a  chorus  of  Mr.  Josephs's 
patrons,  who  now,  in  his  hour  of  trial, 
seemed  but  too  well  disposed  to  abandon 
him. 

The  very  first  thing  he  produced  from 
Lis  waistcoat  pocket  was  my  watch. 

"That's   it!"  I  shouted.     "Give   it  to 


nie 


7" 


"  Stop  a  bit,"  said  jNIr.  Eagles,  with  a 
judicial  air,  drawing  down  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  more  than  ever.  ''  Describe  it 
first ;  and  let  us  hear  what  you  have  got  to 
say,  Mr.  Josephs.  Did  you  appropriate 
this  private's  watch,  or  did  you  not  ? 
And  if  so,  is  this  the  watch  ?  That  is  the 
legal  question." 

*•  This,  his  watch  !  Holy  ]\Ioshesh  ! 
Why,  I  liad  it  from  the  maker,  and  paid 
for  it  my  own  shelf  Let  him  mark  down 
tlie  maker's  name,  and  the  number  of  the 
watch,  Mishter  English.  Ila  ?  Let  him 
do  it,  if  ho  can !  Let  him  shay  how  many 
diamonds  there  are  in  it.  Ha?  Why, 
gentlemensh,  ish  it  likely  that  a  private 
could  have  such  a  watch  ash  thish  ?  It 
cosht  me,  in  the  trade,  gentlemensh,  thirty- 
five  pounds  of  my  own  money.  Mishter 
Tufton,  you  are  an  honorable  gentlemans, 
though  you  are  not  a  friend  of  mine." 

'•  I  shouldn't  be  an  honorable  gentleman 
if  I   w«re,"  observed  mv  lieutenant  quiet- 

'•'  You  are  againsht  me,  sliir,  T  well  know 
that ;  but  let  me  ashk  you  one  question. 
Have  you  ever  seen  thish  watch  in  your 
servant 'sh  possession  ?  Can  you  shwear 
to  it?  Ila?  Wlio  liash  ever  sheen  it? 
Who  can  shwear  to  it  ?  Ha  ?  Let  me 
describe  it,  and  let  him  describe  it.  It  ish 
for  him  to  prove  that  it  ish  his,  I  think  in 
law.  —  ha  ?  " 

I  was  paralyzed*  The  man,  who  was  an 
adept  in  rascality,  had  ascertained  and 
foi-eseen  some  tilings,  and,  nicely  balan- 
cing the  probabilities,  had  boldly  hazarded 
others,  in  laying  his  plans.  What  he  had 
ascertained  was,  that  no  servant,  and,  as 
far  as  he  could  tell,  no  one  in  the  regiment, 


had  ever  had  the  watch  in  his  hand. 
What  he  had  foreseen  was,  that,  even  if  he 
had  been  misinformed,  no  one  but  myself 
was  likely  to  be  able  to  swear  to  its  iden- 
tity ;  and,  as  regarded  myself,  in  what  he 
had  hazarded,  the  event  proved  his  justifi- 
cation. I  knew  no  more  the  number  of 
the  watch  than  I  did  the  number  of  thefts 
this  rascal  had  committed  ;  and  as  to  the 
diamonds  it  contained,  I  was  equally  igno- 
rant :  for  having  no  mechanical  turn,  I  had 
never  pulled  the  works  about,  as  many 
boys  would.  I  stood  there  silent,  with 
crimson  face  and  clinched  hands,  wishing 
that  the  days  of  ordeal  by  single  combat, 
were  not  over,  that  I  might  prove  the  jus- 
tice of  my  cause  upon  Mr.  Josephs's  head. 
"  Come,  Smith,"  crowed  fortii  our  galli- 
nacious  adjutant,  with  all  the  truculent 
air  of  a  lord  of  the  dunghill,  "  what  have 
you  got  to  say  to  tliat^  sir,  eh?  And  stand 
at  attention,  sir  ;  don't  fidget  about  like 
that !  Come,  sir,  of  course,  if  the  watch 
is  yours,  you  know  the  number  ?  " 

''  I'll  be  blessed  if  I  know  the  number 
of  mine,"  muttered  Ensign  Clark. 

"  I  don't  know  the  number,  sir,  nor  how 
many  diamonds  it  has.  I  think  the  maker 
is  Dent,  and  I  can  describe  a  particular 
mark  on  the  watch." 

'■  He  thinlcsh,  gentlemensh  1  It  ish  a 
good  shot !  Dent  ish  the  firsht  maker, 
therefore  he  gueshes  Dent." 

"  Silence  !  Mr.  Josephs.  The  maker  is 
Dent.  So  far,  so  good.  Now,  Smith,  de- 
scribe the  particular  mark  on  the  watch  I 
hold  in  my  hand.  And  you,  Mr.  Josephs, 
write  down  the  number,  on  this  bit  of 
paper." 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough,  first  to  ask 
him,  sir,"  said  I,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
and  striving  very  hard  to  speak  calmly, 
"  whether  there  is  a  scratch  of  any  kind 
upon  the  inner  case,  —  near  the  kev- 
hole?" 

Mr.  Josephs  eyed  me  keenly. 
"  Ah  !  Thish  fellow  wash  at  my  shoul- 
der yesterday  when  I  set  my  watch  by  the 
barrack-clock, — I  remember  —  and  he 
musht  'ave  seen  the  scratch,  gentlemensh, 
—  a  scratch  made  by  the  ^key  slipping 
from  the  hole." 

"  And  I  say  there  is  no  such  scratch,  sir. 
I  polished  the  inner  case  yesterday,"  I  cried 
triumphantly. 

"  Bravo,  Smith  1 "  murmured  Mr.  Tuf- 
ton, when  tlie  examination  of  the  watch 
had  proved  the  correctness  of  my  assertion. 
But  Mr.  Josephs,  though  caught  in  the 
net  which  I  had  laid  for  him,  was  in  no 
wise  daunted. 

"  Gentlemensh,  thish  ish  childsh  play. 
I  took  the  scratches  out  myself,  I  remem- 
ber.     But    what'sh     that,    gentlemensh  ? 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


33 


Let  him  sliny  'ow  he  come  by  shuch  a 
watch.  If  it  wash  hish,  'e  could  prove  that 
he  come  by  it  honestly,  I  suppose.     Ila  V  " 

The  fact  is,  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Joseph 
thought  I  had  stolen  the  watch  myself,  and 
consc(iu('ntly  counted  upon  my  silence,  or 
my  confusion,  in  any  such  contingency  as 
had  now  arisen.  And  it  would  seem  as  if 
he  had  not  altoojetlier  miscalculated. 

"  Well,  now,' Smith,"  said  Mr.  Eagles, 
with  his  severest  inflection.  '•  what  have 
you  got  to  say  to  that  ?  Stand  at  attention, 
sir,  and  don't  ])revaricate  with  your  feet  in 
that  way.  If  this  watch  is  yours,  how  did 
it  come  into  your  possession.  And  remem- 
ber, now,  what  you  say  I  shall  take  down, 
so  mind  you  stick  to  the  same  story." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  lies,  sir," 
I  replied,  firing  up,  "  but  I  decline  answer- 
ing that  question.  The  watcli  is  mise,  and 
I  don't  see  that  it's  anybody's  business  how 
I  came  by  it." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir  !  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  put  you  under  arrest  for  insolence. 
By-the-by,  }'ou  are  under  arrest  I  I  forgot. 
Jove !  a  ])retty  pass  things  are  come  to 
when  a  private  dares  to  talk  in  this  way  ! " 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  disrespectful,  sir. 
How  I  came  by  the  watch  is  just  this,  it 
was  left  me  by  —  some  one  who  is  dead." 

"  Write  that  down,"  said  the  adjutant, 
swooping,  in  an  aquiline  manner,  with  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  claw  upon  an  order- 
ly-room clerk. 

"  A  very  likely  shtory  !  "  grinned  Mr. 
Josephs. 

And  hereupon  a  strange  thing  came  to 
pass. 

The  door  of  the  guard-room  had  been 
blocked  by  a  crowd  of  my  brother-soldiers, 
curious  to  learn  the  particulars  of  "  the  row 
between  gen'leman  Smith  and  that  'ere 
Jew."  And  at  this  juncture  I  heard  a 
sharp  voice  at  my  elbow  exclaim,  — 

"  I'll  take  my  Davy  the  watch  is 
Smith's." 

The  adjutant  turned  fiercely  round. 

"  Who  spoke  ?  Private  Joseph  Carter, 
what  do  you  know  about  this  case  ?  You 
say  it's  Smith's,  do  you  ?  Are  you  ready 
to  swear,  sir  ?  Your  '  Davy  '  is  nothing. 
Damme,  sir,  do  you  know  the  nature  of  an 
oath  ?  " 

"  They  hain't  all  of  a  kind,  sir.  You 
just  said  un,"  returned  Joe,  with  the  ut- 
most gravity,  saluting  as  he  spoke.  "  Smith 
is  my  pal,  and  I  know  his  watch,  —  that  is 
all." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?  Come,  let  us 
hear  how  you  know  it."  (A  terrible 
frown,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth  well 
down.) 

"  I  see  it  in  his  hand  a  few  days  after  he 
'listed.  I  took  partic'lar  notice,  'cause  I 
3 


thought  it  queer  as  a  young  cliap  should 
have  such  a  watch,  —  there  ain't  another 
like  it  in  the  regiment ;  and  I  says  to  him, 
says  I,  '  That's  a  pretty  ticker  o'  yours.' 
'Yes,'  says  he,  *it  was  giv'  me  by  my 
grandmother,  as  is  dead  and  gone.'  '  Poor 
old  'oman,'  says  I;  'well,  I'd  be  speery 
about  it,  if  I  was  you,  for  there's  a  sight  o' 
bad  characters  about.'  After  that  he  kep' 
it  mostly  out  o'  sight ;  but  I'll  swear  to  him." 

"  Don't  believe  him,  gentlenu'nsh  !  They 
are  in  league  together !  "  bellowed  Mr. 
Josephs.     "  He  Is  lying,  —  he  is  lying  !  " 

'•  I'll  punch  your  "  —  I  spare  the  reader 
the  expletive — "  liead,  if  you  say  that 
again^"  observed  Private  Carter,  looking 
uncommonly  as  if  he  was  in  earnest. 

"  Silence,  sir !  The  case  is  a  mysteri- 
ous one,"  added  Mr.  Eagles,  biting  the  end 
of  his  pen,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  and 
a  sapient  lack-lustre  stare  of  his  round 
eye,  reminding  one  of  a  meditative  parrot. 
"  I  repeat,  the  case  is  a  mysterious  one." 

"  Not  the  least  to  me,"  said  my  lieu- 
tenant promptly.  "  A  witness  has  come 
forward  for  Smith.  As  the  theft  was  com- 
mitted in  my  room,  I  shall  take  the  case 
now  into  my  own  hand,  and  prosecute  Mr. 
Josephs  myself" 

"  Prosecute  Mr.  Josephs  yourself?  " 

"Yes.  He  shall  have  an  opportunity  of 
proving  his  right  to  the  watch  in  a  court  of 
law.  Let  him  produce  his  witness.  If  he 
bought  it  of  Dent,  there  can't  be  any  diffi- 
culty in  proving  it.  Here's  a  policeman. 
I  give  this  man  in  charge  for  stealing  my 
servant's  watch,  and  run  the  risk  of  an  ac- 
tion for  false  imprisonment  if  it  turns  out  I 
am  wrong." 

And  in  spite  of  Mr.  Josephs's  turbulent 
remonstrances,  alternately  threatening  and 
appealing  against  the  cruel  injustice  that 
was  being  done  to  him,  he  was  marched 
off,  and,  much  to  my  chagrin,  my  watch 
also,  to  await,  in  the  safe  keej)ing  of  the 
law,  the  final  decision  of  the  case. 

"  And  now,  Eagles,"  said  Mr.  Tufton, 
"  I  hope  you  will  oblige  me  by  releasing 
Smith.  He  was  very  wrong,  as  I  am  sure 
he  feels,  in  assaulting  that  Jew  ;  but  if  it 
should  prove,  as  I  have  very  little  doubt, 
that  the  watch  is  Smith's,  you  will  ac- 
knowledge that  the  provocation  was  strong. 
Smith,  tell  the  adjutant  you  are  sorry  for 
having  attacked  the  Jew  as  you  did." 

I  couldn't  have  said  it  if  my  life  had  de- 
pended on  it ;  but  I  managed,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  to  get  out, — 

"  I  know  it  was  very  wrong,  sir,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

"  Couldn't  help  it,  sir  I  Don't  talk  to 
me  of  '  couldn't  help  it ! '  Soldiers  must 
learn  to  help  doing  wrong,  —  or  they  must 
be  taught,  sir,  — must  be  taught." 


34 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


At  this  moment  a  rescmbl:ince  to  Miner- 
va's favorite  bird  si'cincd  to  |)repon<lerate 
in  the  adjutant's  jjhysio^noniy, — so  wise, 
so  virtuous,  and  so  vacant ;  witli  a  certain 
rullled  look,  which  it  needed  all  TuCton's 
tact  and  p;entleness  to  smooth. 

Five  minutes  later  I  was  released,  and 
followed  my  master  to  his  room. 

"  Shut  the  door,"  he  said  at  once,  "  and 
listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  This  matter 
can  be  settled  at  once  if  you  will  trust  me  : 
if  not,  it  is  possible,  that,  by  some  device 
of  that  Jew's,  you  may,  after  all,  lose  your 
watch.  I  am  sure  you  came  honestly  by 
it.  Tell  me  the  person's  name  who,  you 
say,  left  it  you,  and  I  will  write  by  this 
post  to  Dent,  and  see  if  his  books  can 
prove  it's  being  sold  to  that  person." 

"  I  wilh  trust  you,  sir,"  I  said,  without 
hesitation;  "but  I  would  rather  lose  the 
watch  than  that  the  name  should  2;et  into  the 
police  reports,  —  be  made  generally  known. 
The  watch  was  bought  by  the  late  Mr. 
Penruddocke  of  Beaumanoir,  Dorset,  who 
left  it  to  me." 


CHAPTER   X. 

The  lieutenant  said  nothing,  but  stared 
at  me  for  a  minute  or  two  from  head  to 
foot ;  then  walked  to  the  table,  and  took 
up  a  newspaper.  As  I  thought  that  he 
had  had  enough  of  the  subject,  and  was 
minded  that  I  should  not  continue  it,  I 
busied  myself  in  laying  out  his  clothes  for 
mess  ;  and  then  I  took  his  sword  and  ac- 
coutrements into  the  adjoining  closet  to 
clean.  He  left  the  room  quickly,  but  in 
about  twenty  minutes'  time  returned,  and 
called  to  me.  "  Read  that,"  he  said  ;  and, 
doubling  down  the  advertisement  sheet  of 
"  The  Times,"  he  pointed  to  a  paragraph 
in  the  second  column.     It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  One  hundred  pounds  reward.  Missing 
since  the  29th  of  August,  a  young  gentle- 
man, aged  eighteen  ;  about  five  feet  eleven 
inches  in  height ;  with  rather  light  brown 
hair,  blue  eyes,  and  a  sunburnt  complexion. 

Was  last  seen  at  the  R Station,  Dorset, 

on  the  night  of  the  29th  of  August.  Is 
supposed  to  have  emigrated,  or  to  have 
taken  a  passage  on  board  a  merchantman 
from  Southampton,  about  the  30th  of 
August.  Was  dressed  in  a  dark-gray  slioot- 
ing  suit  and  '  wide-awake  '  hat.  His  linen 
was  marked  with  the  name  of  Penruddocke. 
Had  a  few  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  a 
gold  watch,  maker's  name.  Dent.  Any  per- 
son giving  such  information  to  Messrs. 
Canker  and  Slay,  Fetter  Lane,  as  shall 
lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  missing  gentle- 
man, will  receive  the  above  reward." 


I  read  it  to  the  end,  looked  up,  and  met 
the  lieutenant's  eyes  fixeil  on  me. 

"  Yon-  won't  split,  sir!  "  I  murmured. 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  my  splitting. 
Smith.  This  advertisement  has  been  in 
the  paper  every  day  for  the  last  three 
weeks  :  I  wonder  the  description  did  not 
strike  me  before.  It  will  now  be  sure  to 
strike  some  one  else.  '  Gentleman  Smith' 
and  his  gold  watch  are  at  this  moment  the 
general  topic  in  every  barrack-room,  and  at 
the  sergeants', mess,  where  they  read  '  The 
Times '  regularly.  Some  one  sees  this, 
and  remembers  that  )'ou  enlisted  about  the 
day  named  ;  you  answer  to  the  description 
given  ;  and  you  have  a  gold  watch.  1  sup- 
pose you  cut  the  name  out  of  your  shirt : 
it  is  true  that  the  name  of  Penruddocke 
was  what  revealed  your  secret  to  me;  but, 
even  without  this,  it  does  not  require  much 
acuteness  to  put  the  two  and  two  together 
necessary  to  identity  you  ;  and  the  reward 
offered  will  sharpen  some  one's  wits,  you 
may  be  sure.  Now,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  V  I  must  inform  the  colonel,  who  is 
now  in  London.  Shall  I  ask  liim  to  com- 
municate with  your  friends  ?  I  know 
nothing,  of  course,  of  your  reasons  for 
leaving  home  ;  but  youngsters  often  get 
into  scrapes  which  they  think  irredeemable 
at  the  time,  and  "  — 

"  I  got  into  no  scrape,  Mr.  Tufton  ;  and 
my  reasons  for  leaving  home  and  enlisting 
are  as  strong  now  as  on  the  night  I  ran 
away.  I  can't  explain  them ;  but  I  won't 
go  back.  No  one  shall  make  me.  I  want 
to  be  independent.  They  can't  drive  me 
from  the  regiment,  Mr.  Tufton,  can  they  V  " 

"N  —  no — not  exactly;  but  if  this 
comes  to  be  a  matter  of  common  gossip, 
your  position  here  will  be  very  disagree- 
able. Can't  you  come  to  some  compromise 
with  your  friends  ?  Get  them  to  send  you 
out  to  India." 

"  I  don't  want  them  to  do  any  thing  for 
me,"  I  said  doggedly.  ''  I  won't  take  any 
of  their  money.  I  will  make  my  own 
fortune,  and  a  name  for  myself,  or  I  will 
die  in  the  attempt !  " 

"  That  sounds  verv  fine  and  hei'oic,  mv 
good  fellow  ;  but  there  are  plenty  of  other 
young  soldiers  just  as  ambitious  as  jou, 
who  have  been  gnawing  their  hearts  out  in 
the  army  for  years  past.  In  peace-time, 
how  are  you  to  make  yourself  a  name  ?  If 
you  are  a  model  of  all  the  military  virtues, 
it  is  possible  that  in  five-and-twenty  years' 
time  you  may  have  a  commission  given  you ; 
and  then  you  will  be  just  at  the  point 
from  which  you  minrht  be  startinsc  now  if 
you  chose.  This  is  a  lamentable  mistake 
of  yours,  depend  on  it.  You  are  born  a 
gentleman  ;  and  you  have  no  right  to  throw 
away  that  advantage,  without  a  fair  pros- 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


35 


pect  of  doing  as  well  for  yourself  by  going 
to  the  very  bottom  of  the  ladder.  You 
quarrelled  with  some  of  your  people  V  Well, 
what  does  that  signify?  I^et  us  imagine 
that  you  are  all  in  the  light,  and  they  all 
in  the  wrong  (which  very  seldom  happens). 
You  are  not  vindietive,  1  am  sure  ;  your 
friends  are  evidently  most  anxious  about 
you;  and  if,  as  is  now  certain,  they  trace 
you,  how  much  better  it  will  be  to  allow 
them  to  purchase  you  a  commission  than 
to  resist  all  their  efforts  at  a  reconciliation,* 
and  go  on,  as  a  private,  leading  a  life  which 
must  be  galling  to  any  one  accustomed  to 
associate  with  gentlemen." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  all  you 
have  said,  Mr.  Tufton ;  but  it  doesn't 
change  me  a  bit.  I  can't  argue  the  matter, 
without  telling  things  which  it  isiuipossible 
I  should  name.  No  one  but  myself  knows 
my  reason  for  leaving  home.  I  had  no 
quarrel,  I  was  not  badly  treated  by  any 
one.  I  went  simply  because  it  was  impos- 
sible I  should  stay  ;  and  the  same  reason 
will  prevent  my  ever  returning.  And  now, 
Mr.  Tufton,  you  must  do  wiiat  you  think 
best.  I  suppose,  from  what  you  say,  there 
is  no  doubt  they  will  find  me  out ;  and  I 
shall  give  them  the  same  answer  I  give  you. 
I  should  avoid  all  communication  with  my 
family  if  I  could.  If  it  is  fbtced  on  me, 
they  shall  find  that  what  I  have  done  I 
mean  to  stick  to." 

I  said  this  with  a  decision  which  I  hoped 
would  carry  conviction  to  the  lieutenant's 
mind.  I  was  afraid  he  would  look  on  me 
as  a  silly  boy,  who,  having  committed  a 
masquerading  folly,  as  a  piece  of  bombast, 
would  seize,  or  at  least  be  talked  into  ac- 
cepting, the  first  opportunity  that  arose  of 
recovering  his  lost  position.  AVhetlierany 
such  idea,  in  a  mitigated  form,  did  yet 
linf^er  in  his  mind,  1  know  not.  He  merely 
said  he  thought  it  would  be  his  duty  to 
write  to  tiie  colonel;  and  then  added, — 

"  Of  course.  Penruddocke,  I  cannot  let 
j'ou  go  on  acting  as  my  servant ;  unless, 
indeed,  for  the  ne.xt  day  or  two,  you  should 
j)refer  being  away  from  }our  company's 
barrack-! oom  as  nuich  as  possible." 

I  told  him  that  I  did  prefer  it ;  and  thus 
the  matter  rested.  1  went  to  the  barrack- 
room  straightway,  nevertheless,  to  thank 
my  friend,  Joe  Carter,  for  coming  to  my 
aid. 

"  But  you  shouldn't  have  said  that  about 
my  grandmother,  Joe,  because  you  know  it 
wasn't  true,"  1  added. 

"  If  I've  no  liitrger  score  than  tliat  to  tot 
up  on  the  bhickboard  by  and  by,  I  reckon 
I  can  square  it,"  he  resyjonded. 

Although  fully  jirepared  for  the  struggle 
which  must  follow  my  discovery,  —  a  strug- 
gle of  which  I  never,  for   a  moment,  ques- 


tioned the  issue,  —  I  was  ill  at  ease  all  day. 
What  steps  would  my  mother  take  ?  Would 
she  come  here,  and  make  "  a  scene  "  ?  No, 
that  was  unlike  her.  She  would  send  emis- 
saries to  treat  with  me ;  slie  would  write 
and  remonstrate;  but  would  she  demand 
the  reason  of  my  flight  V  I  felt  ])rctty  sure 
not.  I  felt  pretty  sure  that  she  must  guess 
the  cause,  following  immediately  as  it  did 
that  disrrraceful  event  whi'-h  nothino-  now 
could  ever  undo,  even  supposing  that 
Raymond  had  remained  sili'nt  as  to  my  ur- 
gent remonstrance  (which  T  thought  more 
than  probable^.  But  supposing  she  did  de- 
mand my  reason,  what  then  V  Was  I  to 
tax  her  directly  with  her  crime?  Call  it; 
moral  cowardice,  or  by  what  name  you  will, 
I  shrank  from  this.  I  had  been  brought 
up  to  revere  her;  and  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  drag  down  the  image 
from  its  shrine,  and  bespatter  it  with  mud. 
I  coidd  not  trust  myself  to  speak  to  her  on 
this  sul))ert ;  for,  if  I  did  so,  words  must  be 
spoken  which  it  were  better  that  no  child 
should  use  towards  a  parent. 

I  thought  much  of  my  father  that  day, — 
of  how  he  had  worshipped  her,  and  of 
those  last  words  to  me,  whereby  he  had 
commended  her  to  my  especial  care,  seeing 
that  Ray  had  so  little  of  the  quality  that 
makes  a  man  helpful  in  great  straits.  And 
there,  in  the  niche  where  mv  father  and  the 
common  consent  of  the  world  had  placed 
her,  she  had  remained  all  these  years,  too 
far  removed  from  our  common  joys  and 
troubles,  perhaps,  to  feel  mucli  sympathy 
with  us,  but  all  the  more  looked  up  to  as 
the  incarnation  of  jniriry  on  earth.  Alas  I 
and  it  was  come  to  this  ! 

"  W^ell,"  I  said  to  myself,  after  arguing 
the  question  of  what  line  of  conduct  I  must 
now  adopt,  "  it  may  be  wrong ;  but  as  all 
remonstrance  with  my  mother  would  be 
worse  than  useless,  and  as  I  never  could 
denounce  her,  I  must  remain  silent.  I  will 
never  have  part  or  parcel  in  the;  inheritance 
so  unrighteously  obtained.  No  power  on 
earth  shall  make  me  return  to  my  old  home  ; 
but,  for  the  rest,  I  must  leave  it  in  God's 
hands  to  redress  this  wi'ong  by  some  other 
instrument  than  me." 

In  this  frame  of  mind  I  passed  a  sleepless 
night.  The  next  morning  Mr.  Joseplis  — 
of  whom  I  need  say  little  more,  lor  I  soon  ~ 
forgot  him  and  the  affair  of  the  watcii  alto- 
gether —  was  brought  up  before  a  magis- 
trate ;  and  my  deposition,  with  Joe  Carter's, 
having  been  taken,  the  Jew  was  committed 
to  ])rison,  to  await  his  trial  at  the  next 
assizes. 

I  was  in  the  lieutenant's  room  that  night, 
putting  away  liis  things  after  he  had  gone 
to  mess,  when  I  heard  a  heavy  step  ascend 
the  stairs,  and  then  followed  the  resonant 


36 


PEXRUDDOCKE. 


knock  of  an  umLi-k'Ha-liiindlo  on  the  door. 
I  opened  it ;  and  a  tall  figure  in  an  Inver- 
ness cape  stood  beibre  nie. 

"  Is  tliis  ]Mr.  Tnfton's  cpiarter  ?  God  bless 
my  sonl  I     Why,  Osmnml  1  " 

It  was  my  uncle,  Levison  Rich. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  first  thins;  he  did  was  to  burst  into 
an  uncontrollabie  fit  of  lan<j,liter.  I  felt 
rather  nettled,  and  was  not  soothed  by 
observing;  that  it  was  the  spectacle  of  me  — 
a  Penrnddocke,  and  his  nephew  —  in  un- 
dress livery,  which  thus  tickled  my  uncle's 
lancy. 

"  Gad  !  I  didn't  expect  this  !  This  is 
the  finest  sii^ht  I  ever  saw  !  Jove  !  what 
would  3-onr  mother  say  —  eh  ?  ^ —  if  she  saw 
youV  'Pon  my  soul,  this  is  the  best  joke  ! 
So  you've  taken  to  the  plush,  Osmund,  my 
boy  ?  Well,  when  they  wrote  to  me  that 
you  had  enlisted,  I  expected  to  find  you 
shuulderin'4  'brown  Bess,'  but  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  find  you  acting  as  '  Jeames  ' ! 
Seriously,  what  can  have  induced  you,  my 
dear  boy,  to  make  such  a  young  ass  ot 
yonrseltV" 

'•  I  am  not  going  to  give  my  reasons  to 
any  one  for  doing  what  I  have  done,  Uncle 
Levison.  Of  course  you,  and  every  one 
else,  will  think  me  a  fool.  I  can't  help  that 
You  will  find  I  am  nut  to  be  laughed  out  of 
it." 

"  Well,  let  us  sit  down  (I  suppose  you 
ma>j  sit  down  in  your  master's  room,  eh, 
Osmund  ?),  and  talk  over  this.  It  is  a 
deuced  cold  night,  and  they  don't  give  one 
any  foot-warmers  on  this  line.  Can  you 
get  me  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  biscuit  ?  " 

While  I  ran  into  the  mess-house  next 
door,  my  uncle  took  otF  his  '•  Inverness,'" 
drew  an  arm-chair  near  the  fire,  and  pro- 
ceeded, upon  his  usual  principle,  to  make 
himself  as  comfortable  as  circumstances 
would  permit.  He  was  in  no  way  moved, 
or  disconcerted,  or  perplexed,  at  finding  his 
nephew  lar  from  penitent  or  abashed  and  at 
the  jjrospect  of  a  stout  resistance  to  his 
overtures,  for  which  my  reception  liad  pre- 
2)ared  him. 

"  W^ell,  now,  my  boy,"  he  said,  after  toss- 
ing off  half  a  tumbler  of  sherry,  and  as  he 
wri'_<-Ldcd  some  inches  farther  into  the  soft 
cushion  of  the  arm-chair,  "  tell  me  all  about 
it.  How  came  you  to  take  this  extraordi- 
nary fancy  of  running  away  from  home? 
What  the  deuce  was  it  all  about  ?  Xo  hu- 
man being  knows." 

"  I  never  meant  them  to  know." 

''  Well,  but  come,  you'll  tell  me  ?  You 
/icrf  a  reason,  of  course.      We  always  used 


to  be  very  good  friends,  you  know,  Osmund* 
Any  row  with  your  mother  —  eh  V  " 

'•  No,  I  had  no  row."  Then,  afrer  a 
moment's  pause,  '•  I  could  not  be  happy  at 
home  any  longer.  Ray  ami  I  were  always 
different ;  he  suited  my  mother,  and  I  suited 
iu}-  father.  After  his  death,  no  one  wanted 
me  any  more." 

My  uncle  lit  his  cigar  at  the  candle  be- 
fore he  replied. 

"  That  is  sentimental  rubbish.  '  Suiting  ! ' 
what  the  deuce  does  it  signify  whether 
you  and  Ray  suit?  You  can  live  in  the 
same  house  together,  I  suppose  ?  And  as 
to  no  one  wanting  you,  your  mother  wants 
you,  of  course,  or  she  would  not  have  sent 
half  I'ound  the  world  after  you,  and  adver- 
tised and  offered  rewards  for  news  of  you 
for  the  last  five  months.  It  is  such  deuced 
bad  taste,  my  dear  boy,  making  an  esclandre 
of  this  kintl,  and  all  for  nothing  !  God  knows 
what  people  have  not  been  imagining  — 
every  kind  of  absurdity  —  to  account  for 
your  disappearance :  you  were  in  love 
with  that  child,  Evelyn  Hamleigh,  and 
your  mother  has  separated  you  ;  you  had 
di.-covered  a  flirtation  between  your  moth- 
er and  Francis  (just  conceive  such  a 
thing  !),  and  had  had  a  violent  scene  wi  h 
her  al)out  him  1  There's  no  limit  to  ])eople's 
inventive  powers  in  such  a  case.  The  only 
thing  now  is  tor  you  to  return  home,  and  let 
the  thing  be  regarded  as  a  boyisli  freak,  and 
forgotten  if  possible;  thou;;h that  is  easier 
said  than  done." 

"  I  shall  never  return  to  Beaumanoir.  I 
mean  to  stick  to  soldiering." 

He  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth,  and 
actually  sat  up  in  his  chair. 

"  You  are  joking  1  — you  must  be  !  " 

"  No,  I'm  quite  serious.  I  mean  to  be  in- 
dependent." 

'■  But  you  are  independent.  You've  a 
small  fortune  of  your  own,  and  "  — 

'•  I  don't  mean  to  claim  a  farthing  of  it. 
Indeed,  nothing  should  induce  me  to  do  so. 
I'll  work  for  my  own  bread,  and,  if  I  can, 
distinguish  myself"  — 

"  Distinguish  yourself?  bosh,  my  dear 
boy  !  How  is  a  private  to  distinguish  him- 
self? Indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,  how 
is  any  one  to  disiingui^h  himself  in  the 
present  day,  unless  by  a  fluke?  Distinc- 
tion, according  to  vour  voung  and  entbu- 
siastic  ideas,  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  The 
only  distinction  is  money  now-a-days,  and 
the  more  money  you  have,  the  more  dis- 
tinguished you  are.  As  to  this  idea  of 
yours,  you  are  only  fit  for  a  straight  waist- 
coat, if  you  attempt  to  carry  it  out.  Give 
up  your  fortune  1  —  give  up  being  a  gentle- 
man !  —  'to  earn  your  bread  ! '  —  you  must 
be  raving  mad  !  I've  a  mind  to  ask  the 
doctor  to  see  you.     But  1  can't  believe  it. 


PENRUDDOCKB. 


37 


There's  some  concession,  —  something  you 
want  thcni  to  do  for  you  —  eh? — and 
you're  tr}in!T  to  drive  a  bargain ;  to  bully 
your  mother  into  granting  it,  —  eh  ?  Come, 
tell  us  what  it  is." 

"  I  want  nothing  done  for  me.  Believe 
me  or  not,  as  you  will  ;  but  I  am  honest  in 
telling  you  that  I  mean  to  stick  to  the  lite 
I've  cliosen.  I  know  it  will  be  slow  work 
rising,  but  I  don't  mind  that.  Yuu  see,  I 
am  not  clever  enough  to  be  an  artisan, 
or  any  thing  of  that  kind  ;  but  I  am  strong, 
and  hav'e  got  some  pluck  I  hope,  and 
can  rough  it.  I  think  I  shall  be  made 
lance-corporal  when  the  regiment  sails  in 
March." 

My  uncle  drank  off  another  tumbler  of 
sherr\-.  He  got  up,  sat  down,  fidgeted  in 
his  chair,  stroked  his  finely-waxed  mus- 
tache :  he  was  at  his  wits'  end,  I  saw,  as  to 
what  he  should  say  next.  At  last  an  idea 
occurred  to  him. 

'•  Can  you  answer  one  plain  question  ? 
If  you  are  so  in  love  with  the  army,  why  on 
earth  should  you  object  to  a  commission  in 
the  Guards  V  Your  name  has  been  down 
for  one,  as  you  know,  for  the  last  three 
years ;  and,  if  there  is  ever  anodier  Euro- 
pean war,  you  would  have  a,chance  of  dis- 
tinction, for  they  will  send  the  Guards,  to  a 
dead  certainty,  while  this  regiment  will 
probably  be  stewing  about  the  colonies, 
without  seeing  a  shot  fired.  As  to  the 
purchase  of  your  commissions,"  he  added, 
with  a  certain  irritation  of  manner  which  I 
could  not  account  lor  at  the  time,  "you 
know  that  they  are  provided  for  by  the 
stran"-e  provisions  of  that  precious  will, 
which"  — 

"  It  is  no  use  talking  to  me  of  wills,  Un- 
cle Levison.  I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  I  am 
resolved  not  to  touch  a  farthing  of  the  fam- 
ily money.  I  shall  never  have  a  commis- 
sion till  I  win  one  for  myself.  Every  man 
on  the  Continent  works  his  way  up  from 
the  ranks ;  and  it  would  be  much  better  if 
they  did  so  in  England."  '• 

'•  Oh  !  you  are  going  to  reform  the  Brit- 
ish Army,  are  you  V  You  uned  to  be  a  sen- 
sible boy,  Osmund.  What  the  deuce  has 
come  to  you,  to  talk  such  stuff?  But  I've 
said  all  I  can.  If  you  are  so  confoundedly 
obstinate,  and  have  got  so  enamored  of  the 
society  of  low  blackguards  that  you  prefer 
it  to  living  with  gentlemen,  nothing  that 
any  one  can  say  will  have  any  effect,  I 
suppose.  Your  mother  must  try  what  she 
can  do ;  but  if  she  can  make  head  or  tail 
out  of  your  reasons  for  persisting  in  this 
suicidal  conduct,  Jove  !  it's  more  ihan  / 
can." 

He  sat  there  some  time  longer,  and  fin- 
ished the  bottle  of  sherry,  going  over  the 
same  ground  again  and  again,  in  spite  of 


the  declaration  that  his  powers  of  oratory 
were  exhausted.  At  last  "  tattoo  "  sound- 
ed, and  I  said  I  must  leave  him.  He 
bc'T^red  me  to  "■o  and  find  Mr.  Tufton,  and 
tell  that  officer  that  Col.  Levison  Rich 
would  like  to  see  him.  He  seemed  in  two 
minds  as  to  whether  he  would  shake  hands 
with  me ;  but  his  kind  nature  conquering 
his  irritation,  he  walked  after  me  to  the 
door,  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  — 

"  You're  a  provoking  young  ass,  and  I 
hope  you  may  yet  be  brought  to  hear  rea- 
son ;  but  if  you  aren't,  remember,  when- 
ever you  begin  to  repent  of  your  obstinacy, 
as  you  assuredly  will,  that  you  write  to 
nie,  if  you  don't  like  writing  to  your  moth- 
er." 

With  that  he  turned  back  to  the  fire- 
place, and  I  went  .off  to  find  the  lieutenant. 
What  passed  between  them  I  never  knew, 
though  I  could  guess  tolerably  wall.  Mr. 
Tutton  never  alluded  to  the  subject ;  and  in 
this  he  showed  his  tact. 

The  morning's  post  brought  a  letter  from 
my  mother,  which  it  is  useless  to  produce 
here.  It  was  a  beautiful  specimen  of  calig- 
raphy,  as  all  her  letters  were  ;  elevated  in 
its  sentiments,  refined  in  its  expression,  — 
a  faultless  production  altogether,  but  which 
moved  me  no  whit  as  I  read  it.  The  tone 
was  that  of  a  wounded  but  forgiving  parent, 
opening  her  arms  to  the  prodigal  son. 
(She  was  ignorant,  of  course,  of  the  result 
of  her  brother's  interview  with  me.)  I  re- 
plied briefly,  declaring  it  to  be  my  inten- 
tion to  abide  by  the  step  I  had  taken ; 
and  therewith,  I  hoped  (and  almost 
brought  myself  to  believe)  that  the  efforts 
of  my  famjiy  to  change  my  resolution  would 
cease. 

That  day  passed,  and  the  greater  part 
of  the  next.  I  pictured  to  myself  my 
mother's  cold,  indignant  surprise  when  the 
post  brought  my  reply.  INIy  uni'.e  had 
prepared  her  in  some  measure  for  it,  of 
course  (he  told  me  he  should  go  straight 
to  Beaumanoir  from  Portsmouth)  ;  but  she 
would  be  incredulous,  I  felt  sure,  as  to  my 
continued  obstinacy,  rt/Zer  /  had  read  her 
letter.  Then  there  would  be  consultation, 
surmise,  and  probably  very  bitter  Invec- 
tive :  it  would  be  understood  that  I  must 
henceforward  be  looked  upon  as  a  black 
sheei),  to.  be  spoken  of  with  a  sigh  and  a 
shake  of  the  head,  and  to  be  given  over  to 
a  reprobate  mind,  until  such  time  as  it 
])leased  God  to  work  in  me  repentance  and 
amendment.  1  knew  the  kind  of  thing  so 
well! 

I  was  walking  down  the  High  Street 
that  same  afternoon,  towards  dusk,  when 
a  hand  was  laid  upon  my  arm,  and,  turn- 
ing, I  found  myself  face  to  face  with  Mr. 
Francis. 


38 


PENRDDDCCKE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  FORGOT  every  th'nv^  lor  the  moinent 
in  the  pleasure  of  seeinj^  the  mun  1  loved 
aiul  reverenced  more  than  any  one  on 
earth. 

''  We  cannot  talk  iierc,  my  dear  Os- 
mund,—  let  ns  ask  ibr  a  room  in  this  cof- 
fee-house," and  he  turned  into  one  hard  by. 
As  I  followed  him.  my  pleasurable  suvjjrise 
yiekled  to  the  recollection  of 'vhy  and  how 
it  liad  come  to  pass  that  he  was  hci-e.  1 
steeled  myself  lor  what  I  foresaw  would  be 
a  far  liarder  fin;ht  than  the  encounter  with 
my  uncle,  and  sat  down  op})osite  to  my 
grave,  gentle-voiced  tutor,  in  the  dingiest 
of  little  parlors,  feeling —  I  confess  it  —  a 
certain  trepidation  with  which  neither 
colonel  nor  any  other  oiliccr  in  Her  Maj- 
esty's   th  Uegiment  had  ever  inspired 

me.  There  was  a  rickety  table,  whereon  they 
set  some  tea  and  a  single  candle.  I  sat  on 
one  side,  he  on  the  other.  He  shaded  his 
eyes  wiih  his  hand,  and  began  almost  im- 
mediately thus : — 

"  You  think  you  know  what  brings  me 
here,  Osmund  V  To  persuade  you  to  re- 
turn home  ?  Yon  are  wrong.  I  told  Lady 
llacliel,  when  I  left  Bcaumanoir  to-day, 
that  I  had  a  hope  of  getting  you  to  change 
your  present  course  of  lile,  but  none  of 
bringing  you  back  with  me." 

He  paused ;  and  I  stared  at  him,  open- 
mouthed 

"  1  must  speak  to  you  without  reserve 
this  evening,  on  a  certain  matter.  Other- 
wise my  coming  here  would  be  fruitless.  I 
am  the  only  human  being,  Osmund,  who 
knows  why  you  left  home." 

He  leant  forward,  and  looked  me  straight 
in  the  face. 

1  started  as  if  I  had  been  shot. 

'•  Never  mind.  The  secret  is  safe  with 
me.  I  should  never  think  myself  justified, 
as  the  trusted  friend  of  the  family,  in  betraj- 
ing  what  an  accident  revealed.  ^Vhy  do  1 
tell  you  this  now  ?  No  hint  of  it  has  ever 
passed  my  lips,  or  will  ever  do  so  again. 
But  I  want  you  to  know  that  1  thoroughly 
realize  the  condition  of  mind  under  which 
you  took  this  step,  and  fuHy  understand 
the  reasons  for  vour  refusinsr  to  return 
home.  1  even  sympathize  with  them,  to  a 
cei-tain  extent.  To  any  one  with  a  very 
high  sense  of  honor,  the  position  is  not  only 
painful,  but  difficult." 

"  Your  own  mother  !  Think  of  that,  Mr. 
Francis  —  your  own  mother  I  If  it  had 
been  any  thing  but  that.,  I'd  have  spoken 
out  the  truth,  and  shamed  the  Devil." 

He  did  not  notice  my  impetuous  inter- 
ruption, but  repeated,  — 

"The   position   is  not  only  painful,  but 


dillicult.  Y'ou  will  take  no  part  of  the 
money  you  believe  to  be  diverted  from  its 
rightful  owner,  and  so  you  cut  yourself 
adrift — is  not  that  it?" 

'•  It  is." 

"  So  fixr  I  understand.  I  say  nothing, 
then,  about  your  returning  home.  But  you 
are  aware  that  you  have  a  small  indepen- 
dent fortune  V  \^y  what  ])rocess  of  reason- 
ing have  you  dticidcd  that  you  are  bound 
to  give  this  up,  and  with  it  your  social 
position  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  my  father  left  me  was  not 
his  to  leave  1  He  would  have  been  the 
last  man  to  have  kept  a  property  he  didn't 
believe  was  honestly  his.  I  won't  touch  a 
penny  of  it !  " 

'•  But  surely  you  know  that  there  is  mon- 
ey from  an  altogether  difl'erent  source  left 
you  by  your  mother's  uncle,  Gen.  Rich? 
This  is  rightfully  yours,  and  lias  nothing 
to  do  with  the  Fcnruddocke  ]iroperty." 

I  looked  at  him  incredulously. 

"  No,  I  do  not  know  it." 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  so.  The  general  died 
when  you  were  a  child.  He  left  you  ten 
thousand  pounds,  in  the  hands  of  two  trus- 
tees, Lord  Berbrooke  and  Mr.  Humphrey 
Penruddocke,  for  whom  he  had  a  great 
esteem.  l(.  as  he  hoped,  you  should  feel 
disposed  to  follow  his  footsteps,  and  enter 
the  Guards,  he  left  a  further  sura  for  the 
purchase  of  your  commissions.  If,  on  the 
(jther  hand,  you  showed  no  disposition  tor 
the  army,  die  money  was  to  go  to  one  of 
your  cousins." 

"  This,  then,  is  what  my  uncle  began 
about  yesterday.  I  couldn't  make  head  or 
tail  of  what  he  meant;  but  the  subject 
seemed  to  annoy  him,  and  I  cut  it  short, 
for  1  thought  he  referred  to  my  father's 
will." 

"  No  wonder  the  subject  of  Gen. 
Rich's  will  is  not  a  pleasant  one  to  your 
Uncle  Levison.  It  was  always  supposed 
the  general  would  make  him  his  heir,  I  am 
told ;  but  Col.  Rich's  extravagance  wore 
out  the  old  gentleman's  patience.  After 
paying  his  debts  several  times,  he  would 
have  nothing  more  to  say  to  him." 

"  Well,  I  never  was  told  of  this,  Mr. 
Francis.  My  mother,  certainly,  once  or 
twice  said  something  to  me  about  goin<T 
into  the  Guards,  and  told  me  that  my  name 
was  down  for  a  commission;  but  I  didn't 
much  fancy  a  London  life,  and  I  said  so. 
I  knew  nothing  of  the  general's  having- 
left  me  any  money." 

"  You  were  well  provided  for  by  your 
father ;  and  Lady  Rachel  wisely  retrained 
fiom  telling  you  of  this  additional  fortune, 
fearing  it  might  prevent  your  entering 
some  profession;  but  now  that  you  know 
the   real    stale    of    the    case,  jour    course 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


39 


seems  to  me  to  be  clear,  unless  you  object 
to  soldiering;." 

"  Oil  the  contrary,  it  is  the  only  career 
for  which  I  think  I  am  fit." 

"  Then  you  should  certainly  accept  the 
commission  in  the  Guards.  Surely  you 
can  have  no  valid  objection  to  that?  " 

I  hesitated. 

"  I  had  rather  it  was  in  the  Line." 

"  Perhaps  so ;  but  Gen.  Ricli's  leq;acy 
depends  on  your  entering  this  particular 
brancli  of  the  service.  It  was  a  whim  of 
the  old  man's ;  and,  as  your  career  in  life 
is  thus  materially  forwarded,  it  would  be 
folly  to  reject  it.  You  can  exchange  into 
the  Line  at  some  future  time." 

"  And  how  am  I  to  avoid  going  to  Beau- 
manoir,  or  taking  any  Penruddocke  money, 
without   entering     into   explanations  with 


my  muther 


9  " 


"  I  think  no  explanation  will  be  necessa- 
ry ;  but  of  course  you  will  have  to  say  that 
you  believe  John  Penruddocke  to  be  the 
rightful  owner  of  the  estatb,  and  that  con- 
sequwntly  nothing  will  induce  you  to  take 
any  of  the  proceeds  of  it.  If  Lady  Ra- 
chel guesses  the  truth,  she  will  be  silent, 
or,  at  least,  the  pressure  on  you  will  soon 
cease.  The  world  will  regard  you  as  in- 
sane, but  so  they  regarded  your  great-uncle, 
when  he  espoused  his  half-brother's  cause 
so  warmly.  The  trustees  of  Gen.  Rich's 
will  will  not  refuse  to  make  a  suitable 
allowance  lor  your  maintenance  until  you 
are  of  age." 

I  yielded  finally  to  his  arguments,  hav- 
ing nothing  further  to  urge  in  opposition 
to  them. 

'•  Of  course  I've  no  wish  to  go  on  living 
in  a  soldier's  barrack-room  if  I  can  take 
my  place  at  the  officers'  mess  honestly, 
without  doing  any  other  fellow  injustice; 
but  the  Penruddocke  money, — I'd  sooner 
starve  than  take  a  penny  of  it !  And 
now,  Mr.  Francis,  please  tell  me  about 
Evy." 

"  I've  only  seen  Miss  Hamleigh  twice 
since  you  were  away.  She  struck  me  as 
much  changed,  —  shot  suddenly  out  of  the 
child  into  the  young  lady.  She  asked  me, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  what  I  thought  had 
become  of  you.  I  said  I  thought  you  were 
in  Ameiica,  but  that  I  felt  sure  we  should 
hear  of  you  before  very  long  —  you  could 
not  leave  those  you  loved  in  ignorance  of 
your  fate.  No  one  will  rejoice  more  than 
Miss  Hamleigh  at  your  return  to  us,  Os- 
mund." 

"  I  didn't  dare  write  ;  for  her  mother 
often  opens  her  letters." 

"  And  why  did  you  not  write  to  me?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  didn't  know  you 
were  still  at  Beaumanoir.  Tlien,  1  couldn't 
tell  you  the  truth,  you  see,  Mr.  Francis,  and 


I  didn't  know  that  you  knew  all  ;  and  I 
was  afraid  of  being  traced  by  the  post-mark  : 
but  I'd  given  any  thing  to  have  opened  my 
heart  to  you  all  this  time." 

"  Well,  you  have  caused  me  a  great  deal 
of  anxiety  ;  and  I  cannot  say  how  thankful 
I  am  to  sec  you,  my  boy,  here,  safe  and 
sound.  I  am  no  longer  actually  living  at 
Beaumanoir,  but  have  been  very  busy,  in 
London  and  elsewhere,  prosecuting  the 
search  for  you.  Lady  Rachel  did  not  wish 
me  to  accept  any  of  the  posts  I  have  had 
offered  me,  as  tutor  to  young  men  going 
abroad,  hoping,  from  day  to  day,  that  you 
would  return  ;  and,"  he  added,  smiling, 
"  paying  me  the  compliment  to  say  I  had 
more  influence  with  you  than  any  one." 

"  There  she  was  right !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  It  was  because  I  knew  that,  my  boy, 
that  I  consented  to  remain  nominally  a 
member  of  your  mother's  household,  against 
some  of  my  inclinations.  I,  too,  have  had 
my  trials  in  this  affair,  —  have  had  to  do 
violence  to  my  conscience  ;  and  it  was  only 
by  holding  rigidly  to  the  principle  that  a 
man  placed  as  I  am  has  no  right  to  see  or 
know  any  thing  that  goes  on  around  him, 
that  I  have  restrained  myself.  And  now 
sit  down,  and  write  to  your  mother." 

"  What  am  I  to  say  ?  I  wrote,  and  utter- 
ly rejected  her  offers.  I  wish  you'd  see 
her.  Tell  her  what  you  like,  provided  / 
haven't  to  enter  into  explanations  with  her. 
Shall  I  write  to  Uncle  Levison  ?  " 

"  Very  well.  I  will  take  the  up-mail 
train,  and  see  your  uncle  early  to-morrow, 
before  returning  to  Beaumanoir.  I  think  I 
can  explain  matters  there,  without  your 
writing." 

I  called  for  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  wrote  a 
short  letter  to  Col.  Rich.  Then  I  wrung 
dear  old  Francis's  hand.  We  paid  our 
score,  and  parted. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

Over  the  next  half  year  I  shall  not  lin- 
ger long.  What  befell  me  may  be  told  in 
few  words.     My  discharge  was  purchased, 

and  I  bade  farewell  to  the th  Regiment. 

During  the  few  months  I  had  served  in  its 
ranks,  I  had  bought  an  amount  of  experi- 
ence which  the  same  number  of  years  spent 
at  Beaumanoir  would  not  have  given  me  ; 
a  certain  insight  into  character,  that 
"  knowledge  of  the  world,"  as  it  is  called, 
(though  I  had  but  a  rough  block  of  men, 
none  of  the  artifi'jial  sculptures  of  society, 
to  study),  which  is  sometimes  —  not  always 
gained  at  public  schools  and  colleges.  Thus 
1  have  never  regretted  my  training  as  a 
private.     1    learnt    subjection,    reticence, 


40 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


punctuality.  I  came  a  greenhorn  —  I  went 
<vway  a  uiau  ;  not  a  wise  one,  by  any  means, 
as  this  veracious  history  will  only  too  clear- 
ly show,  but  yet  possessing  that  which  I 
found  useful  to  nie  in  my  future  dealiii'j;s 
with  my  fellow-men.  Lieut.  Tufton  shook 
my  hand  cordially  at  parting,  and  said  lie 
hoped  we  should  meet  again. 

"  I  shall  never  have  such  another  ser- 
vant," said  he,  lau'^hing. 

"  Nor  I  another  such  master,"  I  re[)lied. 

JMr.  Eagles  blossomed  out  into  smiles 
■when  I  went  to  the  orderly-room,  and  gave 
me  a  liber;d  allowance  of  wholesome  ad- 
vice, wliich  I  am  afraid  I  treated  with  the 
ingratitude  such  donations  usually  meet 
with.  He  ended  by  asserting  that  he  had 
maintained,  all  along,  that  I  was  a  '•  boy  of 
family"  —  tor  which  statement  may  Heav- 
en tbri;ive  him  I " 

"  And  so  y'rc  a  nob  ?  "  said  Joe,  eying 
me  curiously  from  head  to  foot,  as  though 
he  had  never  before  fully  embraced  the 
details  of  my  person.  The  news  had 
spread  tlirough  the  barrack-yard,  and  had 
created  some  interest.  "  Well,"  added  my 
ii'iend,  as  he  held  out  a  liorny  but  jierlect- 
ly  clean  hand,  "  I  always  thought  there 
was  suuimut  (jueer  about  ye." 

"  Never  mind,  Joe,  my  heart's  in  the 
right  place  —  that's  the  chief  thing,  ain't 
it  V  I'm  sorry  to  say  good-by.  After  all, 
I"d  rather  rise  from  the  ranks  by  my  merits 
than  be  a  readv-made  swell." 

«  Hum  !  "  sa'id  Joe  dryly.  "  You'd  ha' 
had  to  live  to  a  great  age  fust  —  a'most  as 
long  as  that  old  gent  in  the  Bible.  Good- 
by,  lad.  I'd  like  to  be  going  with  ye  — 
ibr  one  thing  is  cock-sure — /  shall  never 
rise,  and  I'm  pretty  nigh  sick  o'  soldier- 
ing." 

Thus  it  was  that  Joe  and  I  parted. 

Mr.  Francis  returned  tor  me  the  third 
day  after  our  interview  at  the  public-house. 
His  calculations  had  not  been  at  tkuit.  In 
that  interval  he  had  manacjed  to  arrange 
all ;  to  make  such  a  representation  to  my 
mother  as  inclined  her  to  submit  to  the 
only  conditions  upon  which  I  would  con- 
sent to  be  dragged  out  of  the  mire,  namely, 
that  I  should  never  be  urged  to  return  to 
Beauraanoii',  or  to  take  the  fortune  left  me 
by  my  fither.  How  Mr.  Francis  acoin- 
plished  this  delicate  and  difKcult  task,  I 
never  inquired ;  but  that  it  was  done  with 
consummate  tact  I  felt  sure,  for  my  decision 
met  with  neither  remonstrance  nor  ques- 
tion. 

He  told  my  trustees  as  much  as  was  ne- 
cessary, and  no  more,  in  order  to  obtain  an 
advance  upon  Gen.  Rich's  leiracy,  which 
would  cover  all  expenses  during  my  resi- 
dence at  the  "  crammer's,"  where  I  went 
direct    frcuu    Portsmouth.      He    lived    at 


Wimbledon  ;  and  as  Mr.  Francis  now  set- 
tled himself  in  London,  taking  a  temporary 
engagement  as  daily  tutor  to  the  sons  of  a 
Catholic  nobleman,  I  saw  him  constantly 
for  some  months  to  come.  Not  a  week 
passed  but  he  came  down  to  Wimbledon  ; 
and  many  a  delightful  walk  we  had, — 
hours  I  look  back  upon  still  with  the  keen- 
est pleasure.  He  was  the  only  person  in 
the  world  to  whom  I  felt  I  could  open 
n)y  heart.  If  I  had  any  trouble  I  con- 
fided it  to  hiui ;  and,  in  his  finherly 
counsel,  I  never  failed  to  lind  a  true,  broad- 
sighted  wisdom. 

My  uiotber  came  to  town  in  the  course  of 
ihe  season,  and  1  saw  her  several  times.  I 
looked  forward  to  the  first  meeting  with 
dread,  I  confess  ;  but  I  found  lier  beautiful 
and  unmoved  as  ever.  iShe  did  not  allude 
to  the  past,  nor  did  1 ;  and  the  interview 
passed  off  as  calmly  as  though  I  had  left 
Ceauraauoir  the  week  before.  She  told  me 
she  had  come  in  order  to  use  all  her  person- 
al influence  witlif  certain  authorities  to  cret 

• 

uie  appointed  out  of  my  turn,  and  she  was 
hopeful  of  my  having  the  second  vacancy 
which  occurred.  She  then  inquired  wiiere 
I  wishei]  to  pass  the  vacation,  wnicii  was  at 
hand.  I  replied  that  I  iiad  a  great  desire 
to  go  abroad,  where  1  had  never  been,  and 
that  I  thought  a  trip  to  Holland  and  Bel- 
gium would  not  be  very  expensive,  and 
would  occupy  the  time  ])leasantly  as  well  as 
profitably.  She  was  pleased  to  say  she 
thought  it  a  wise  scheuie  ;  but  my  belief  is 
that,  at  that  moment,  if  I  had  proposed  a 
six  weeks'  trip  to  Kamschatka,  she  would 
have  offered  no  opposition.  Aly  mother 
was  a  woman  who  knew  when  and  how  to 
resist;  but  she  also  knew  how  to  yield  to 
the  "  logic  of  facts." 

I  wrote  constantly  to  Evelyn,  and  re- 
ceived dear  little  letters  from  her  in  repiv, 
every  one  of  which  I  still  have,  docketed 
and  tied  together,  in  the  furthest  recesses 
of  my  desk.  And  1  am  tempted,  as  much 
by  the  desire  to  show  something  of  my  ilar- 
ling's  character,  and  her  feeimgs  towards 
me  at  this  time,  as  because  it  <lescribv's 
with  a  few  simple  touches,  the  attitude  of 
various  members  of  our  family,  to  give  here 
one  letter  out  of  this  small,  and,  to  me,  pre- 
cious packet : — 

"  Beadmajjoir,  June  28. 
"  Df.arest  Osmund.  —  ilow  kind  of 
you  to  remember  my  birthday !  I  got 
the  little  locket  this  morniu'^,  ami  pri.:e 
it  more  than  all  my  other  beautiful  pres- 
ents. Lady  Rachel  jxave  me  a  string  of 
small  pearls;  and  Ray,  the  British  Ency- 
clopaedia, in  three  ini^  volumes.  It  was  \evy 
kind  of  him  ;  but  1  iiave  no  shelf  in  my 
room  at;  home  big  enougii  tor  them,  I  am 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


41 


afraid.  Mamma  gave  mo  a  very  pret- 
ty dress,  and  says,  now  that  I  am  six- 
teen I  may  have  it  made  quite, 
long." 

"  We  came  here  three  days  ago.  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  say  so.  but  it  is  very  dull 
without  you.  However,  it  is  something  to 
know  where  you  are.  Last  winter  it  was 
so  wretched  here,  never  even  hearing  your 
name  mentioned.  Laily  Rachel  says  you 
are  working  very  hard.  She  tells  us,  too. 
that  you  are  very  much  grown,  and  that 
the  photograph  does  not  do  you  justice. 
For  my  part,  I  am  sure  it  does  not,  though 
I  have  not  seen  you  for  nearly  a  j'ear.  I 
am  grown,  too, — mamma  says  '  terribly," 
-^  for  I  cannot  wear  any  of  my  old  summer 
frocks.  Do  you  remember  tearing  my  lilac 
one,  in  lifting  me  throu2;Ii  that  hedge  last 
June  ?  I  walked  there  yesterday.  They 
have  ])ut  a  great  ugly  paling  there.  Poor 
old  Rover  and  I  go  about  together.  He 
attaches  himself  to  me,  recollecting,  I 
fancy,  that  I  was,  generally,  his  dear  mas- 
ter's comjjanion. 

"  There  was  a  school-feast  yesterday ; 
and  a  tenant's  dance  in  the  evening.  Mr. 
Putney  made  a  beautiful  speech  about 
Lady  liichel.  Ray  replied  to  it,  and  said 
how  happy  he  was  to  see  the  tenantry  gath- 
ered round  him,  after  the  attempts  that 
had  been  made  to  deprive  him  of  the  ])rop- 
erty.  Then  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
shouting,  and  the  volunteers  struck  up, 
'  The  fine  old  En'j;lish  gentleman.'  Mam- 
ma  cried,  and  I  felt  very  choky;  but  I 
thought  how  you  would  have  laughed  at 
me,  and  have  called  my  tears  some  rude 
name,  so  I  was  determined  not  to  show 
them.  Bill  Strutt  was  there.  He  asked 
nie  '  when  the  young  master  was  a-comin' 
whuome  V  We  wants  un  badly.'  I  should 
like  to  have  shaken  him  by  the  hand,  but  I 
did  not  dare.  A  terrible  piece  of  news 
has  reached  the  village.  Those  two  bro- 
thers, the  Hounsfields,  who  went  to  Amer- 
ica last  autumn,  have  been  killed  by  the 
blowinii  up  of  some  mine.  Is  it  not  shock- 
ing V  Tiiough  you  never  liked  them,  I  an\ 
sure  you  will  be  horrified.  Lady  Rachel 
felt  it  very  much.  She  said  nothing,  when 
Mr.  Putney  told  us,  but  sat  down,  and  I 
saw  how  pale  she  turned.  Mamma,  who 
■went  to  her  room  afterwards,  found  she 
was  quite  upset.  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Putney 
will  preach  a  sermon  about  it  to-morrow. 
It  is  so  terrible  when  he  preaches  about 
death  and  hell,  and  so  on.  When  are  you 
coming  home,  dearest  Osmund?  I  hoj)e 
you  will  enjoy  Holland.  I  wish  I  was  go- 
ing ;  but  I  shall  never  leave  home,  I  sup- 
pose, except  to  come  here.  I  do  so  want 
to  have  wings,  and  fly  away  sometimes  !  1 
used  not  to  feel  that :  it  has  come  on  me  of 


late,  and  it  is  very  wrong,  I  know.     Write 
soon,  dear,  dear  Osmund,  to 

"  Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"  Evelyn  IIamleigh." 

The  news  of  the  two  Hounsfiehls'  dentli 
did  affect  me  more  than  my  little  Evelvn 
could  foresee.  But  for  my  mother's  hav- 
ing sent  them  across  the  seas,  with  the 
wages  of  sin,  those  men  would,  humanly 
spreaking,  have  been  alive  now.  How 
strangely  Providence  seemed  to  jilay  into 
lier  hands  I  How  all  things  seemed  to 
work  together  towards  the  success  of  her 
scheme  !  These  fellows,  her  only  agents, 
removed  by  death,  no  other  witnesses  could 
ever  rise  up  against  her;  for  of  Mr.  Fran- 
cis I  fl'lt  as  sure  as  I  did  of  myself.  As  I 
thought  over  it,  I  was  tempted  to  say  in 
my  heart,  "  Can  there  be  a  Go<l  who  per- 
mits the  innocent  to  be  punished,  now  and 
again,  and  who  helps  to  hide  the  sins  of  the 
guilty?" 

I  had  hoped  that  Mr.  Francis  might 
have  accompanied  me  al)road  ;  but  he  liad 
[)romised  to  go  to  Ireland  with  the  lads 
whom  he  was  teaching;  and  there,  as  it 
turned  out,  he  remained.  I  did  not  see  my 
best  friend  again  for  more  than  a  vear. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Iisr  August  I  sailed  from  London  for 
Antwerp.  It  was  a  glorious  day,  and  the 
steamer  was  crowded.  I  could  scarcelv 
find  a  seat  on  deck ;  but,  as  I  glanced 
round,  my  fellow-passengers  presented  no 
very  salient  or  attractive  features.  There 
was  the  conventional  tourist-family,  bound 
for  the  Rhine,  the  elders  armed  with  mac- 
intoshes and  '•  ^luri-ays,"  the  juniors  with 
Bath-buns,  in  piniparation  for  the  voyage. 
There  was  a  party  of  spinsters,  six  in  num- 
ber, of  various  ages,  from  thirty  upwards, 
headed  by  one  more  militant  and  adven- 
turous than  the  rest,  whom  I  saw,  in  my 
mind's  eye,  disputing  the  hotel  bills  every 
mornini'-,  and  ui-ging  her  weaker  sisters  to 
renewed  exertion  in  an  effort  to  reach  the 
summit  of  the  Righi ;  for  this  company  of 
discreet  maidens  were  journeying  to  Swit- 
zerland, I  found.  There  were  gouty  men 
for  Wiesbaden,  and  gay  widows  for  llom- 
burg,  a  large  admixture  of  shabljy-genteel 
I)eople,  whose  exact  social  position  it  was 
difficult  to  guess  (or  why  they  were  cross- 
ing the  channel  —  was  it  business,  or  pleas- 
ure ?  for  they  looked  profoundly  indifferent 
to  every  thing),  and  a  small  sprinkling  of 
Germans.  I  passed  my  observations  on 
these  groups  —  among  which,  no  doubt, 
was  many  a  far  better  man  than  myself — ■ 


42 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


■with  all  the  impudence  of  nineteen,  and 
was  sittinu;  down  to  read  my  railway-novel, 
when,  three  mimites  before  the  plank  was 
■withdrawn,  a  lady  came  on  board  with  two 
servants,  causing  some  commotion  on  tiie 
crowded  deck  by  the  iiillux  of  dressing- 
cases,  bngs,  plaids,  &c.  Iler  luggage,  con- 
sisting of  some  huge,  foreign-looking  trunks, 
was  pitched  on  board  ;  the  cabman  and 
jiortcrs,  who  were  battling  with  the  courier 
ibr  the  extraction  of  more  shillings,  were 
hustled  on  shore,  the  ladder  was  hauled  up,' 
the  paddle-wheels  began  to  move,  and  we 
were  under  way. 

The  lady  looked  piteously  around  ;  there 
was  not  even  a  camp-stool  disengaged ;  the 
courier  was  abaft,  seeing  after  the  luggage  ; 
the  maid,  like  a  beast  of  burden,  under 
the  weight  of  her  mistress's  possessions, 
stooil  thei'e,  patient  and  incapable.  There 
was  no  help  for  it :  I  rose,  and  offered  the 
comturtable  nook  which  I  had  just  secured. 
She  thanked  me,  in  the  purest  English, 
but  with  a  slight  foreign  accent  ;  and  tht; 
manner  in  which  she  accepted  my  offer  had  a 
certain  self-possessed  grace,  which  stamped 
ber  at  once  as  a  high-bred  woman.  But  it 
had  a  charm,  over  and  above  this,  which  it 
is  difficult  to  describe.  Whether  it  lay  in 
the  voice  or  in  the  smile,  or  in  something 
which  was  not  exactly  one  or  the  other,  I 
cannot  tell.  I  know  that  I  scarcely  thought 
ber  good-looking  then  (at  an  age  when 
good  looks  go  for  so  much  !),  and  that,  even 
when  I  knew  her  better,  it  was  only  at 
times  she  appeared  so  to  me.  But  this  fas- 
cination of  manner  arrested  my  interest  at 
once.  I  got  a  stool,  in  the  course  of  time, 
not  very  far  off;  and  whenever  I  looked  up, 
from  my  book,  my  eyes  turned  naturally 
towards  the  lady  in  dust  color ;  and  I 
watched  her  for  some  minutes,  until  I  was 
detected,  when  I  buried  myself  again  in 
the  pages  of  "  Eugene  Aram."  She  had 
pulled  off  her  gloves,  and  was  knitting, 
while  she  read,  at  the  same  time,  a  forei^jn- 
looking  book,  which  lay  open  on  her  lap. 
Let  me  describe  her,  as  she  sat  there. 

She  was  near  thirty,  I  believe,  at  this  time. 
Her  face  was  a  little  worn,  and  any  bloom 
the  complexion  had  ever  had  was  gone. 
The  hair  was  light  and  abundant,  but  not 
very  beautiful  in  color.  It  sprang  fi-om  its 
roots  in  those  wilful  lines  that  indicate 
force  of  character ;  and  all  its  waves,  being 
drawn  back  over  the  ears,  were  knotted 
together  in  what  looked  like  a  nest  of  taw- 
ny serpents  under  her  little  brown  hat. 
The  eyes  were  very  expressive  ;  dark  with 
shadows  at  one  time,  full  of  brilliant  lights 
at  another,  so  that  I  never  knew  what 
color  they  were.  The  nose  was  irregular 
in  shape ;  and  yet,  when  one  came  to  know 
the  face,  one  would  not  willingly  have  ex- 


changed it  for  a  more  classic  model  ;  mo- 
bility, energy,  and  passion,  it  certainly 
indicated  these,  and  there  was  a  finesse  ia 
the  curve  of  the  nostril,  which  was  chiefly 
noticeable  when  she  was  about  to  smile. 
At  such  times,  the  mouth  was  charming ; 
the  lii)S,  somewhat  too  thin,  perhaps,  open- 
ing freely  over  the  whitest  and  most  even 
teeth  in  the  world.  The  jaw  was  a  little 
angular  ;  but  the  chin,  with  its  fine  upward 
turn,  and  little  cleft,  so  full  of  cliaracter, 
would  have  been  pronoimced  by  a  sculptor 
perfect,  —  the  only  perfect  part  of  that 
face.  And  it  was  this  which  was  most 
visible  now,  the  brow  and  eyes  being 
shaded  by  her  hat.  She  was  above  the  mid- 
dle height,  and  her  figure  seemed  round 
and  graceful  under  its  loose  travelling 
dress.  The  only  ornament  she  wore,  of 
any  kind,  was  a  large  sapphire  (5n  her 
finger,  which,  I  observed,  guarded  a  wed- 
ding-ring ;  every  thing  about  her,  down  to 
the  ])lain  collar  and  cuffs,  was  as  simple  as 
possible. 

There  was  a  move,  by  and  by,  of  such 
an  impetuous  character  that  it  might 
almost  be  styled  a  charge,  down  to  dinner. 
The  courier,  a  very  ])leasant-lookinLr  fellow, 
came  up  to  the  lady,  and  urged  her  de- 
scending to  this  repast.  She  seemed  reluct- 
ant to  leave  her  seat,  but  the  man  did 
not  f^ive  in.  With  that  freedom,  unmixed 
with  impudence,  which  belongs  to  most 
foreign  servants,  he  continued  pressing  the 
point.  I  could  guess,  though  I  could  not 
hear,  all  he  said;  and  in  the  end  he  pre- 
vailed. She  rose,  laid  down  her  book  and 
knittiiig,  and  left  her  maid  to  mount  guard 
over  tiiein.  I  slipped  down  the  stairs  after 
her  ;  the  tables  seemed  crammed  :  there 
was  a  Babel  of  tongues,  a  clouil  of  savory 
steam,  a  clashing  of  knives,  as  though  some 
Scythian  war-dance  was  going  on,  —  and 
in  all  this  hideous  confusion,  I  saw  no  seat 
for  my  fair  friend.  She  stood  there  for  a 
moment,  lookintr  bewildered,  and  a  little 
disgusted,  and  was  about  to  retire,  when  a 
functionary,  napkin  in  hand,  plunged  fbr- 
wai'd,  crying  out,  — 

"  Stop,  ma'am  !  Pll  put  seats  for  you 
and  the  gentleman  'ere,  at  the  side-table." 

She  turned  to  see  who  her  companion 
in  exile  was,  and  a  smile  touched  her  lijjs. 
We  sat  down. 

"  1  am  afraid  I  crowd  you.  There  isn't 
room  for  two.     I  will  wait "  — 

"  Pray  don't  move.  I  have  plenty  of 
room.  It  would  be  too  bad.  after  turning 
you  out  of  your  seat  on  deck,  if  I  turned 
you  out  of  it  below  too." 

She  smiled  charmingly  as  she  said  this  ; 
and,  on  the  strength  of  it,  I  went  on,  — 

"  I  was  rewarded  by  seeing  you  make 
yourself  so  comfortable  there.     May  1  ask 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


43 


how  you  manage  to  read  and  work  at  the 
same  time  V  " 

''  All  we  Germans  do  that.  Yes,  I  was 
very  cumt'ortable,  and  it  is  dreadtull}' close 
down  here.     I  regret  havino;  come." 

I  didn't  hke  that  speech  quite  so  much  ; 
but  she  was  not  thinking  of"  me,  and  I 
could  not  feel  offended. 

"  But  now  you  have  come  down,  you 
will  cat  something  ?  May  I  give  you  some 
ot"  this  beet'?     It's  awfully  good." 

"  No,  tliank  you.  When  I  was  your 
age,  I  thought  most  things  '  awfully  good  ; ' 
now  I  am  more  difficult,  I  am  afraid ;  at 
least,  I  have  not  the  same  appetite." 

"  Mine,  do  you  know,  has  never  filled 
me  yet,  and  I've  been  tried  as  much  as 
most  fellows,"  I  added,  with  an  air  which 
made  my  companion  smile. 

"  Really  ?  You  look  the  picture  of 
health  and  activity,  —  as  if  nothing  could 
ever  liave  gone  amiss  with  you." 

"  Ah  !  you  don't  know,"  —  then,  with  a 
burst  of  irrepressible  confidence,  —  "you 
wouldn't  think  now,  that  I  hail  enlisted 
once  as  a  private,  and  that  for  six  months 
no  one  knew  what  had  become  of  me  ?  " 

She  looked  round  at  me  witli  an  expres- 
sion half  of  interest,  half  of  amusement. 

"  And  did  no  compunction  of  conscience 
interfere  with  your  appetite  all  that 
time  ?  " 

"  No,  I  had  no  compunctions." 

"  Then  vou  cannot  have  a  mother?  " 

"Yes,  Ihave." 

"  And  you  could  leave  her  without  tid- 
ings of  you  all  that  time  !  You  must  be  a 
very  hard  character,  —  yet  your  look  belies 
it.     I  think  you  are  imposing  on  me." 

"  I  assure  you,  I  am  not.  My  mother 
doesn't  care  much  for  me.  I  have  an  elder 
brother,  who  is  considered  perfect,  you  see, 
and  I  am  not  wanted  at  home." 

"  And  have  you  no  sisters  ?  Is  there  no 
one  else  at  home  you  care  about  ?  " 

"  No,  —  that  is  to  say,  —  I  have  a  little 
cousin,  who  lives  there  a  good  deal.  I  am 
very  Ibnd  of  her.  She  is  the  only  relation 
I  care  much  about,  —  I  might  say,  the  only 
person  in  the  world,  excejjt  my  old  tutor." 

AVHiat  prompted  me  to  make  these  reve- 
lations to  an  utter  stranger  ?  It  is  difficult 
for  me  to  understand  now,  yet  then  it 
seemed  quite  natural  at  the  time. 

"  And  this  little  cousin,  —  you  were  so 
cruel  as  not  even  to  let  her  know  where 
you  were  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes—  I  couldn't  help  that,  be- 
cause her  mother  opens  her  letters." 

''  And  was  she  very  unhappy  all  the 
time  V  " 

"Well,  I  hope"  —  here  I  colored,  anil 
stammered — "I  mean  I  think  she  was. 
But  it  is  all  right  now,  you  know." 


"  Oh  1  it  is  all  right,  is  it  ?  She  is  of  a 
very  forgiving  disposition,  then  ?  I  should 
not  so  easily  pardon  any  one  I  loved,  who 
behaved  so." 

"  Yes,  you  would,  I  am  sure,  —  that  is, 
if  you  loved  the  person  very  much.  Have 
you  never  had  to  forgive  any  one  you 
loved  ? " 

An  expression  of  the  sharpest  pain 
crossed  her  face.    Then  she  said  quietly, — 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  not  a  safe  experiment  to 
repeat  often.  It  lowers  a  man  in  his  own 
eyes,  to  seek  constantly  for  forgiveness, — 
it  lowers  him  in  a  woman's,  constantly  to 
be  forgiven.  It  ends  by  hardening  both. 
Take  my  advice,  —  you  are  very  young 
still  —  let  those  you  love  have  as  little  to 
forgive  as  possible.  There  is  not  too  much 
real  love  in  life  that  one  can  afford  to  waste 
it." 

"  No  one  has  better  reason  to  know  that 
than  I ;  but  there  isn't  much  fear  between 
me  and  my  cousin.  Nothing  can  ever 
come  between  us,  I  am  sure." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  said,  with  an  incredu- 
lous little  smile.  "  Divine  confidence  of 
youth  !  I  hope,  for  your  sake,  it  may  be 
so  ;  and  what  is  your  life  now,  if  I  may 
ask?" 

"I  am  waiting  for  my  commission  in  the 
Guards." 

"  Going  into  all  the  temptations  of  fash- 
ionable London  life!  Ah  !  take  care  you  do 
not  forget  the  little  cousin  then.  Try  to  lead 
such  a  life  that  you  need  have  no  secrets  from 
her.  Let  it  be  a  talisman  to  guard  ^ou. 
A  pure  youth  without  self-reproach,  — it  is 
so  rare,  so  beautifiil  to  look  back  to  1  No 
fears  to  beat  away,  no  strife  to  heal ; 

'  The  past  unsigbed  for,  and  the  future  sure,' 

as  your  poet  says.  That  is  what  your  aim 
should  be." 

"  I  hope  never  to  do  any  thing  I'm 
ashamed  of;  but  I  have  been  brought  up 
with  such  faultless  people  all  my  life  — 
people  who  are  considered  faultless,  at 
least  —  that  I  am  afraid  I  prefer  sinners  to 
saints." 

"  I  suspect  there  is  not  much  chance  of 
your  being  numbered  among  the  latter." 
said  the  lady,  laughing.  "  I,  alas  I  have 
lived  more  among  the  sinners,  and  so  I 
have  come  to  i)refer  what  is  upright  and 
innocent :  and  now  that  you  have  told  me, 
in  such  a  very  un-English  fashion,  so  nuich 
about  yourself,  suppose  you  tell  me  your 
name  V  " 

I  told  her ;  also  where  we  lived,  and 
who  my  mother  was ;  when  my  unknown 
fVieiul  said,  — 

"  Is  she  not  a  sister  of  Col.  Levison 
Rich  ?     1  met  hiui  some  months  ago,  when 


44 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


I  remember  of  his  tollinc;  ns  of  an  nttempt 
made  by  some  distant  relation  to  dispos- 
sess his  nephew  of  his  estate  in  Dorset- 
shire." 

'•Humpli!  lie  s))oke  of  that,  did  lie? 
Yes.  he  is  my  uncle." 

"  I  hope  your  unele,  then,  is'  not  to  be 
your  mentor  in  London,  Mr.  Penruddocke." 

'*  Oh  !  my  Uncle  Levison  and  I  are  capi- 
tal frit'iids ;  but  I  know  hiin  tliorou;j,hly. 
lie  is  a  tremendous  swell,  and  that  I  shall 
never  be.  You  met  in  London,  I  suppose  ? 
Bv  the  by,  vou  haven't  yet  told  me  your 
name  ?  " 

She  pulled  out  a  Russia-leather  case. 
and  took  from  it  a  card,  which  she  laid 
beside  my  j)late.  Upon  it  was  "  La  Coin- 
tesse  d'Arnheim,  No. — ,  Chesham  Place." 
Tlien,  with  a  little  nod,  she  rose  and  left 
the  cabin. 

Later  I  joined  her  on  the  deck,  and 
talked  to  her  for  nearly  two  hours.  I  had 
met  very  few  cultivated  women  in  my  short 
life,  and  none,  certainly,  to  be  compared 
with  this  one.  There  was  a  simplicity,  a 
playful  creniality,  combined  with  a  certain 
finesse  in  all  she  said,  which  exercised  a 
singular  fascination  over  me.  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  my  mother's  very  measured  deliv- 
ery, which  scarcely  stirred  a  muscle  of  her 
beautiful  face;  to  Mrs;  Hamleigh's  amiable 
artificiality  ;  and  to  the  vapid  commonness 
of  the  few  toadies  who  had  visited  Beau- 
manoir  of  late  years.  I  now  talked  for  the 
first  time  to  a  woman  who  lived  in  the 
great  world,  and  had  been  accustomed  to 
it  from  her  earl)'  youth  ;  who  was  a  singu- 
lar compound  of  enthusiasm  and  worldly 
wisdom,  with  a  keen  perception  of  the  fol- 
lies that  surrounded  her,  and  who  yet  was 
ijtterly  unspoilt,  and  had  retained,  in  some 
measure,  the  naivete  of  a  child.  She  told 
me  that  she  had  been  brou.rht  up,  partly 
in  the  small  court  of  Echlinstein,  when 
her  father  was  Kammerherr  to  the  reign- 
inir  duke,  and  partly  at  Berlin ;  that  she 
had  been  married  six  years,  which  had 
btten  spent  in  Paris  and  in  London,  her 
husband,   who  was  in    diplomacy,   having 

been    secretary    to     the Legation,  — 

first  in  the  one  capital,  and  now,  for  the 
hist  three  years  in  the  other. 

"  This  is  my  holiday,"  she  said.  "  T  have 
not  been  home,  or  seen  any  of  my  family, 
for  the  last  two  years.  Last  autumn  we 
went  to  Scotland,  —  my  husband  wished  it ; 
so  I  could  not  get  to  Germany.  I  found  it 
verv  tedious,  visitinsr  from  one  ";reat  house 
to  another.  This  year  my  husband  is  going 
to  yacht,  I  believe,  and  does  nut  want  me ; 
so,  as  I  am  suffering  from  what  we  Ger- 
mans call  Ileimweh,  I  have  started  off 
alone." 

"  Have  you  any  children?  "  I  asked. 


She  shook  her  head  ;  and,  guessing  that 
the  subject  was  a  j)ainful  one,  I  changed 
it  quickly,  saying. — 

"  How  do  you  like  London  ?  " 
"I  like  the  coimtry ;  but  the  j)eople  I 
see  most  of  are  fashionable  people,  whose 
lives  are  at  high-pressure  all  the  year 
round.  That  restless  search  after  excite- 
ment seems  to  me  to  militate  against  the 
true  pleasures  of  life,  as  we  Germans  under- 
stand them." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  nothing  of  fashionable  life 
but  I  nuist  own  I  like  excitement.  There's 
nothing  like  a  good  run." 

"  But  if  you  were  running  all  the  year, 
think  how  tired  you  would  be  1  That  is 
what  the  slaves  of  fashion  do." 

"  Well,  I  shall  never  be  a  slave  of  fash- 
ion," said  L  laughing.  "  I  have  no  idea 
of  doing  things  simply  because  other  peo- 
ple do  them." 

"  Then  you  despise  the  world's  opinion  '? 
I  applaud  that  sentiment.  In  what  direc- 
tion does  your  amijition  lie?  " 

"  To  be  distinguished  in  my  profession." 
"  A  very  worthy  ambition,  only  difficult 
of  attainment  in  peace  time." 

"  We  shall  not  always  have  peace,  I 
hope.  At  any  rate,  I  have  no  ambition  to 
be  a  swell  in  London,  like  my  uncle." 

"  And  yet,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  in  a 
meditative  way,  "  I  should  not  be  surprised 
if  you  become  as  popular  in  many  salons, 
in  your  own  way,  as  he  is.  You  are  diffi- 
dent, and  you  are  very  honest,  —  which  is 
a  new  line,  —  perhaps  it  will  take.  You 
have  not  paid  me  a  single  cQmpliment,  or 
talked  a  word  of  the  rubbish  men  generally 
think  it  necessary  to  entertain  us  with, 
during  all  the  time  we  have  talked  here  — 
by  which  you  don't  know  how  much  you 
have  risen  in  my  estimation.  Now  I  must 
say  'good-night.'  Go  to  your  berth,  and 
dream  of  the  little  cousin." 

She  gave  me  a  friendly  nod  and  smile, 
and,  gathering  her  shawl  about  her,  disap- 
]5eared  below.  I  remained  some  time  ou 
deck,  meditating  on  all  my  new  friend  had 
said  ;  and  yet  more,  on  the  singular  charm 
which  invested  every  word  that  fell  from 
her  with  a  value  not  intrinsically  its  own. 
It  was  like  cutting  the  pages  of  a  book  thut 
seems  to  open  a  new  era  to  one,  a  revela- 
tion of  delight,  the  discovery  of  which  was 
hitherto  unguessed.  That  an  accomplished 
woman  of  the  world,  a  creature  I  had 
always  regarded  as  every  thing  tiiat  was 
heartless  and  unreal,  should  have  the  warm 
and  tender  feelings  I  felt  sure  Madame 
d'Arnheim  possessed  was  a  puzzle  I  could 
not  solve. 

The  next  morning,  to  my  disappointment, 
Madame  d'Arnheim  only  appeared  on  deck 
a  few  minutes  before  we  landed   at  Ant- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


45 


werp.  She  was  to  start  l)y  tlie  next  train 
to  Colo!^ne.  I  was  to  spend  a  niLjht  in 
Antwerp,  and  then  p;o  on  to  the  Hague. 
As  she  put  out  her  hand,  to  wish  me  good- 
by,  she  said,  — 

"  Do  not  Ibmet  to  come  and  see  me  when 
you  come  to  London,  Mr.  Penruddoci<e. 
If  the  acquaintance  be^^un  on  the  Antwerp 
steamer  dies  a  natural  death,  it  will  be  your 
fault,  remember." 

And  then  we  parted. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  'Only  study,  besides  that  of  nature 
in  some  of  its  departments,  which  I  had 
ever  cared  for,  had  been  history.  All  that 
was  old,  all  that  was  connected  with  the 
past,  had  an  attraction  tor  me.  I  found 
plenty  of  interest  of  this  kind  in  Holland 
and  Beli^ium.  Every  town  I  visited  during 
the  next  few  days  had  records,  relics,  asso- 
ciations with  a  by-gone  time,  which  kindled 
my  imagination,  and  aroused  my  enthusi- 
asm for  those  bi'ave  old  burghers  who  had 
been  the  life-blood  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 
I  prowled  about  quaint  streets,  I  visited 
every  church  and  stadhuls,  I  examined  the 
portrait  of  every  worthy  I  could  find,  and 
then  I  pictured  to  myself  the  stirring  scenes 
connected  witli  the  place.  I  generally  talked 
to  peo|>le,  wherever  I  went,  in  English  if 
possible  ;  if  not,  in  my  very  stifi-necked 
French  ;  and  when  that  would  not  do,  by 
signs.  Very  few  things  stopped  me ;  the 
consequence  of  which  was,  that  I  picked  up 
a  good  deal  of  information  and  much  amuse- 
ment ;  that  I  made  a  pleasant  acquaintance 
or  two  among  chance  travellers  like  my- 
self; and  that  I  never  knew  what  it  was  to 
be  lonely.  In  short,  I  thoroughly  enjoyed 
my  tour. 

It  was  late  one  August  evening  when  I 
walked  into  the  old  Inn  at  Ghent,  and 
asked  for  supper.  'Two  persons  were  seated 
at  the  long  table  in  the  public  room,  a  tall 
old  man  and  a  young  girl.  Others  came 
and  went,  l)ut  upon  these  two  my  attention 
soon  became  riveted.  The  old  man  was 
shabbily  dresseil,  and  scarcely  looked  like 
a  gentieuian  ;  the  girl  was  plain,  and  very 
untidy  :  that  was  my  first  impression.  Her 
frock  was  torn,  her  hair  rumj)led,  and  her 
hands  —  they  were  coarse  and  red  hands 
—  were  any  thing  but  clean.  The  second 
impression  made  on  me  by  this  group  was, 
that,  somewhere  or  other,  I  had  seen  those 
faces  before.  After  that,  of  course,  I  di<l 
little  else  but  watch  them,  and  listen  to 
their  conversation  —  (they  spoke  in  Eng- 
lish, and  were  at  no  pains  to  speak  low)  — 
in  the  endeavor  to  recall  how  it  was  that 


those  faces  did  not  seem  altogether  unfa- 
miliar to  me.  The  girl  was  apparently 
about  fifteen,  but  rather  short.  She  had  a 
bad  complexion,  and  large  bones,  which 
seemed  protruding  everywhere ;  but  the 
more  I  looked  at  her,  tin;  more  I  became 
interested  in  her  face,  and  the  less  ugly  I 
thought  it.  Its  vivid  intelligence,  and  the 
intensity  of  its  varying  exjjressions,  redeem- 
ed the  plainness  of  its  features,  and  ren- 
dered it  positively  attractive  to  me  after  a 
little  time. 

"  Dad,"  said  the  girl,  soon  after  I  sat  down, 
"  what's  the  use  of  a  lot  of  learning  ?  I 
don't  see  that  people  are  a  bit  the  better 
for  it." 

"I  never  had  much  education  myself, 
Lizzie,  and  I  feel  the  waflt  of  it,"  was  the 
reply. 

'•  No  education  could  have  made  you  a 
bit  better  than  you  are  ;  I  know  that,"  said 
the  girl  vehemently. 

'•Ah!  that's  idle  talking.  Besides,  young 
folks,  ])resent  day,  know  a  deal  more  than 
they  did  when  I  was  a  lad.  You've  been 
neglected  hitherto,  Liz  —  I  couldn't  help  it. 
Your  poor  mother  "  — 

"  Mother  hadn't  much  learning,  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  a  bit  better  than  mother." 

"  She  would  have  had  it,  if  she  could, 
my  dear.  She  didn't  despise  it ;  she  was 
too  sensible  for  that ;  and  now  that  1  have 
the  opportunity,  and  have  had  the  money 
given  me  expressly  to  have  you  taught  a 
bit,  I  mustn't  neglect  it,  Liz.  2vIo  voung 
lady  "  — 

"  I  don't  watit  to  be  a  young  lady.  I 
want  to  stay  with  you,  dad." 

"  Well,  but  you  can't  have  me  always. 
When  I'm  gone,  lass,  you'll  find  yourself 
shocking  ignorant,  all  alone  in  the  world." 

"  Don't  you  talk  like  that,  dad  ;  "  and  the 
girl  gave  his  shoulder  an  affectionate  push 
with  her  head,  like  a  Newfoundland  pup[)y. 

'•  But  we  must  look  to  it,  Liz.  I'm  an 
old  chap  to  be  the  father  of  a  young  thing 
like  you.  I  must  go,  lassie,  betbre  many 
years  are  over.  It  don't  make  it  come  a 
bit  the  sooner  looking  at  it,  you  know. 
When  you're  alone  in  the  world,  whal'll 
you  do  then  ?  " 

"  Work.  I  won't  sit  with  my  hands  in 
gloves  before  me,  all  day  long." 

"  Well,  but  learning,  my  lass,  don't  need 
to  make  you  idle.  Except  writing  and 
arithmetic,  you  see,  you  know  nothing.  At 
the  school  here,  to  begin  with,  you'll  be 
learning  French," 

"  What's  the  use  of  French  ?  Look  at 
that  fellow  on  the  railway  to-day,  jabbering 
and  shaking  his  fist :  he  didn't  get  on  as 
well  as  we  did." 

"  He  was  very  (piarrelsome,  my  dear  — 
if,    indeed,    he    wasn't    drunk.      We    were 


46 


PEXRDDDOCKE. 


peacealile,  orderly  folk,  who  wanted  noth- 
iiHj;  liutoiir  tickets.  If  we  hail  beoii  in  any 
diliiciilty,  you'd  liave  fmnd  the  advantage 
of  talking;  a  little  Freneh." 

There  was  a  pause.  At  last  she  said 
glooD'ily,  — 

'•  They  won't  let  me  so  out  alone.  All 
the  girls  walk  out  in  jiairs,  like  Noah's  Ark. 
I  can't  bear  it  !  " 

'•  But  you'll  be  tau'.dit  cyninastics,"  ob- 
served her  father  soothingly. 

"  Shall  I  V  That's  cliailjing  and  swing- 
ing, isn't  it  V  "  Here  a  gleam  of  pleasure. 
for  the  first  time,  shot  across  her  face. 
"  And  swimming  ?  I  want  to  swim  so  baxl- 
ly,  dad  I  " 

"  Ah  !  as  to  that,  I  don't  know  what 
water  there  is  here  ;  but  if  you're  a  good 
flirl,  and  get  on  well  at  school,  we'll  go  to 
Ostend  next  June,  and  you'll  soon  swim 
like  a  fish  there," 

"June!  Why,  that's  nearly  a  year  off! 
And  ain't  I  to  see  you  till  then,  dad  ?  " 

•'  Oh  !  I  shall  come  over  at  Christmas, 
Lizzie,  and  take  you  to  Brussels,  We'll 
go  t.'  the  theatre,  and  you'll  be  able  then 
to  explain  it  all  to  me  ;  and,  you  shall  see, 
we'll  amuse  ourselves  finely," 

"  Ah  !  ■'  sighed  the  girl,  "  we'd  have 
amused  ourselves  better  in  the  old  farm  at 
home.  I  wish  no  one  had  ever  put  it  into 
your  head  to  come  over  to  Europe,  We 
were  a  deal  hap])ier  in  the  old  place  than 
ever  we  shall  be  in  England.  I  hate  all 
their  stuck-up  ways  !  " 

•'Now,  Liz,  I  won't  have  you  talk  like 
that,  when  you've  met  with  so  much  kind- 
ness. I  am  sure  my  old  cousin  has  been 
like  a  brother.  He  couldn't  have  had  my 
interests  more  at  heart  if  they'd  been  his 
own." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  it  dad,  and  I'm  not  un- 
grateful,—  only  he  made  yon  come  over. 
It  was  all  his  doing  ;  and  I  wish  we  hadn't 
come,  that's  all." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  one  thing  we  have 
gained  by  coming  is  that  he  has  made  his 
will  in  your  favor,  and  lias  shown  it  to  me. 
He  knows  that  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  have 
made  great  sacrifices  to  come  over  here, 
and  ferret  out  the  rights  of  this  business. 
Ic  turned  against  us  :  we  can't  help  that ; 
but  he  took  it  a'most  more  to  heart  than  I 
did.  He  swore  then  and  there  that  not  a 
penny  of  his  should  ever  go  to  the  family, 
and  made  his  will  in  my  presence.  He 
ain't  a  rich  man  ;  but  what  he  leaves  '11 
make  you  independent,  Liz.  Therefore 
I've  done  some  good,  you  see,  by  coming 
over." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  rich,  I  want  to  do 
just  as  I  like,"  said  Liz,  with  both  her  el- 
bows on  the  table,  and  her  teeth  set  fast 
in  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter.     "  Now,  I'll 


tell  you  the  life  I  should  like,  dad.  We 
should  have  a  little  house  in  a  wood,  just 
big  enou'ih  for  you  and  me  ;  and  we'd  go 
out  moDse-hunting  and  fishing  all  day  long. 
And  then,  when  I  married,  I'd  have  noth- 
ing but  sons  "  — 

"  How  are  you  to  marry,  Lizzie,  if  we 
live  in  the  backwoods,  and  in  a  hut  too, 
oidy  large  enough  for  you  and  me  ?  "  said  the 
father,  laughing.  "  No,  no  :  when  you've 
had  two  vears'  schooling,  and  come  out 
fine  and  accomplished,  may  be  you'll  find 
some  one,  liere,  lassie,  that'll  take  a  fancy 
to  }ou,  but  not  in  the  backwoods." 

"  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  him  if  lie 
fakes  me  only  for  my  accomplishments," 
sai<l  ^liss  Lizzie,  tossing  back  her  mane, 
"  The  husband  I  choose  must  be  a  man, 
gentle  and  yet  strong, — just  like  you,  dad, 
not  a  bit  cleverer  or  handsomer.  I  don't 
want  a  fine,  learned,  polished  statue,  like 
that  detestable  lellow  at  Beaumanoir!  I 
hope  never  to  see  that  creature  again  !  " 

"  Nay,  Liz,  you're  prejudiced  against 
the  lad  because  he  got  the  best  of  it.  If 
there  was  that  unlucky  flaw  in  our  case,  it 
was  no  fault  of  his.  Of  course  he  did  quite 
right  to  fight  it  out.  I  should  have  done 
the  same.  And  nothing  can  be  more  civil 
and  condescending  than  Lady  Rachel. 
She  asked  you  there  twice  ;  and,  but  for 
Humphrey,  I'd  certainly  have  let  you 
SO." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  gone  1  I  wouldn't 
have  entered  their  dirty  doors!"  said  the 
girl  passionately.  "  Condescending,  indeed  ! 
Darling  dad,  you're  a  great  deal  too  good 
for  this  world, — you  think  every  one  is 
like  yourself.  After  all,  I  am  much  more 
shrew  than  you  are," 

'•  Shrewd,  you  mean,  my  dear,  —  shrewd." 

'•  Well,  shrewd,  then.  I  see  people  as 
they  really  are.  You  see  them  as  they 
ought  to  be.  Those  people  at  Beauma- 
noir are  all  a  set  of  false,  cold-blooded 
creatures,  without  a  heart  among  them,  I 
know  it,  I  I'eel  it,  and  "  — 

'•  You  say  '  all.'  You  never  saw  the 
youngest  son." 

"  No ;  but  of  course  he  is  just  like  his 
mother  and  brother.  Nothing  that  you 
can  say,  dad,  shall  ever  persuiide  me  to 
enter  that  house  again." 

"  Well,  well,  make  no  rash  promises. 
There  is  time  enough  to  think  of  that 
when  you  leave  school.  You'll  be  a  deal 
changed,  lassie,  I  hope,  in  many  ways  by 
then.  Now,  if  you've  done  your  bread  and 
butter,  we'll  go  to  bed ;  for  I'm  very  tired," 

They  both  rose,  and  left  the  table. 

And  I  remained  there,  for  a  full  hour, 
leaning  my  head  between  my  hands,  and 
revolving  in  my  mind  how  I  should  now 
act. 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


47 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

I  DESIRED,  if  possible,  to  make  my  cous- 
ins' ac(jnaintancc  without  their  k'arninsj 
who  I  was.  The  old  man  and  his  child 
would  have  interested  me  had  they  been 
absolute  stranirers.  As  it  was,  while  I 
shrank  from  revealing  myself,  I  was  drawn 
towards  them  by  ieelin^^s.  which,  thou'j;li 
complex,  all  tended  in  one  direction.  If  I 
could  ever  render  these  poor,  defrauded 
relations  any  service,  I  would  <j;o  through 
fire  and  water  to  do  it.  It  had  made  my 
cheeks  burn,  knowing  all  I  did,  to  liear 
John  Penruddocke  speak  of  my  mother 
and  brother  as  he  had  done.  I  was  asham- 
ed to  address  him  ;  and  yet  I  longed  to 
shake  his  hand,  and  to  exj^-ess  to  him  how 
much  I  -honored  his  bravery  and  hxrge 
mindedness  in  misfortune. 

My  luggage  had  no  address,  and  on  the 
stranger's  book  1  inscribed  myself  as  Mr. 
Smith. 

Tiie  next  morning  I  was  in  the  salle 
early,  before  Cousin  John  and  his  daugh- 
ter were  down.  I  had  arranged  my  plan 
of  operations,  having  gathered  the  pre- 
vious evening,  from  some  further  fragments 
of  conversation  which  I  have  thought  it 
unnecessary  to  repeat  here,  that  father  and 
daughter  were  to  spend  a  coujjle  of  days 
at  the  inn  together,  before  Elizabeth  was 
handed  over  to  Mademoiselle  Pla<;ant's 
establishment.  Those  days  would  be  spent 
partly  in  lionizing  the  town,  no  doubt ;  and 
here  was  my  opportunity.  To  intrude  my- 
self upon  them  at  their  breakfast  was  im- 
possible. Perhaps  it  had  dawned  on  my 
"shrew"  little  cousin  that  the  young 
stranger  who  had  supped  at  the  table, 
the  night  before,  had  watched  and  lis- 
tened to  them  ;  at  all  events,  she  made 
breakfast  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
and  I  could  hear  nothing  she  said.  I  got 
up,  and  sauntered  towards  the  cathedral. 
It  was  probably  the  first  object  that  would 
attract  Strangers :  if  not,  I  was  almost 
sure  to  come  upon  them  in  their  round  of 
sight-seeing,  later  in  the  day.  But  even 
before  I  had  reached  St.  Bavon,  Mr.  Pen- 
ruddocke and  his  daughter,  walking  at  a 
rapid  pace,  overtook  me  :  the  father  in  a 
battered  wide-awake,  Elizabeth  in  a  straw 
hat  which  had  clearly  met  with  some  hard 
usage.  !My  dee{)-laid  plot  was  disconcerted, 
however,  by  the  sight  of  a  little  crt^ature, 
voluble  and  prodigal  of  gesticulation,  who 
ambled  alongside  of  them,  and  whom  I 
recognizeil  at  once  as  belonging  to  the 
odious  race  of  laqnais  tie  place.  As  they 
passed  me,  I  caught  fragments  of  his  de- 
testable jargon  (had  I  not  suffered  under 
the  like  at  Antwerp,  at  Bruges,  and   else- 


where?), composed  of  low  Dutch,  and  yet 
lower  French,  in  equal  parts,  wiih  a  word 
of  incomprehensible  English  here  and 
there.  I  followed  them  into  the  cathedral. 
At  a  distance  wiiith  could  hardly  be  call- 
ed respectful,  I  pursued  them  down  the 
side-aisles,  catching  fragments  of  the  ex- 
position of  Porbus,  Van  Eyck,  Crayer, 
and  lluljcns,  to  which  my  cousins  were 
being  sulyected  by  the  human  parrot  into 
whose  keeping  they  had  delivered  them- 
selves. 

"  I  can't  understand  what  the  man  says  1  " 
exclaimed  Elizabeth  im])atiently. 

"  Something  about  Vandyck  and  '  the 
sheep,' "  observed  her  father  doubtfully. 
Now  was  my  moment. 

"  Excuse  m'e,"  I  approached,  with  my 
best  bow.  "  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  think 
I  can  explain.  He  means  '  The  Lamb.' 
The  subject  is  the  '  Adoration  of  the  Lamb ' 
—  a  very  famous  picture  by  Van  Eyck  — 
not  Vandyck,  I  believe.  I  have  been  read- 
ing up  my  '  Murray,'  so  I  know  all  about 
it." 

"Ah!  Thank  you,  sir  —  impossible  to 
make  out  what  these  fellows  say,  I  find  ; 
neither  my  girl  nor  I  understanding 
French." 

"  Your  loss  isn't  great  in  this  case,  I 
fancy,"  I  returned  with  a  smile  ;  "  but,  if 
you  will  not  mind  my  joining  you,  I  think 
I  can  exphiin  what  this  fellow  says,  and 
perhaps  add  something  he  does  not.  I  have 
been  some  weeks  in  this  country,  and  begin 
to  uniierstand  their  lingo." 

We  "  did  "  St.  Bavon  very  thoroughly, 
and  I  confined  myself  at  first  to  playing 
the  part  of  an  intelligible  commentary  on 
the  Utijuais  de  p^ace. 

As  we  issued  from  the  north  door,  he 
pointed  out  Count  Egmont's  house. 

"  Who  was  he  ?  I  never  heard  of  him," 
said  Elizabeth,  in  a  tone  where  curiosity 
struggled  with  reserve. 

"  He  and  Count  Horn  raised  the  standard 
of  revolt  in  the  Netherlands  against  the 
Spanish  rule,  and  were  beheaded  by  Alva. 
Schiller  wrote  a  famous  tragedy  on  it,  I 
believe.  I've  been  reading  'Motley' 
lately,  and  his  account  is  awfully  interest- 
ing." 

"  What  is  '  Motley  '  ?  "  asked  Elizabeth  ; 
and  when  I  liad  explained  the  ellipsis,  she 
said  bluntly,  "  I  don't  know  any  history 
except  the  Kings  of  England,  and  not 
much  aljout  them." 

"  You  will  find  it  adds  to  the  interest  of 
seeing  these  old  places  to  know  something 
of  tlie  events  that  occurred  there,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,  my  lass,"  said  her  father  in  a  low 
voice.  "  You  must  work  away  at  history,  at 
INIam'selle's.     The  gentleman's  very  right." 


48 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


I  could  not  hear  her  reply ;  and  we 
walki'd  on  ;  John  Penruddoeke  uddressini!; 
a  remark  to  aio,  from  time  to  time,  throu!::;h 
the  running'  (ire  which  the  laquais  kept  up 
beside  us.  Wa  came  to  the  Vrijda<fs 
Market,  and  after  the  letritimate  associa- 
tions conni'cted  witli  it  had  fdtercd  through 
me  to  the  understanding  of  my  cousins,  I 
observed, — 

"This   is  just  the    background  for    the 


Long   afterwards 
speech. 


I    remembered    that 


"  Crui'l,  cruel  the  words  I  saiil, 
Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day !  " 


I  low   often,  in    future   years,  my   mind 
reverted  to  tliis  discussion  ! 

"  I  don't  see  that  it's  any  better  for  wo- 
men," said  Kiizabetli  sharply.  "  If  I  was 
sick  of  the  world,  I'd  —  I'd  do  something. 
close  of  Browning's  stirring  ballad,  where  I'll  umlertake  some  enterprise  full  of  danger, 
tilt!  gallant  horse  ialls,  amid  the  shouts  of  I  and  try  to  forget  my  misery  that  way.  It's 
the  glad  people,  —  only  that  the  'good  so  cowardly  to  skulk  into  a  convent ! 
news  '  was  brought  from,  and  not  to,  Ghent 
by  that  memorable  ride." 

"  ^Vhat    memorable    ride  ?      And   what   head.     "  Don't  be  too  hard  on   those  who 

was  the  good  news  ?  "  seek  for  a  refuge  from  their  troubles.     I've 

"You  want  to  know  too  mnch,"  I  replied,    no  taste  for  such  places   myself,  but    I've 

laughing.     "I  really  can't  tell  you.     One   known  what  sorrow  was ;  and  I  can  fancy 

supposes  it  to  have  been  that  some  threat-    that  better  men    than  me,  who've   got  no 


"  Ah  !  you  young    creatures  !    wait    till 
you  have  suffered,"  said  John,  shaking  his 


ened  calamit\-  was  averted  from  the  city 
but  no  matter,  the  ride's  the  thing, — 


'  I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he ; 
I  galloped,  Dk-k  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 
"  Good  speed !  "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts 

uudrew; 
"  Speed !  "  echoed  the  walls  to  us  galloping  through ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloi)cd  abreast.'  " 


little  lassie  nor  any  tie  to  bind  them  to  the 
world,  may  be  that  weary,  you  see,  that 
they  long  to  creep  into  any  quiet  hole,  and 
devote  themselves  to  God's  service,  till  it 
pleases  him  to  call  them  away." 

The   defence   of   monastic     institutions 

from  a  man  whose  character  and  education 

I  should  have  expected  would   have  rea- 

dered  him  peculiarly  antagonistic  to  them 

"  I  like  that,"   said   Elizabeth,   looking  '  struck  me  as  almost  pathetic  ;  but  Elizabeth 

really  excited  :   "  I  don't  care  for  p6etry, '  would  not  admit  her  father's  apology  un- 

generally,    it's    such   sickly    stuff;    but    I   challenged. 

like  that,  I  can  understand  it."  |      "  I  remember   hearing  a    proverb  once, 

I   repeated    the    whole   ballad,  which  I    dad, — I  think  it  was  translated  from  the 


knew  by  heart.  She  was  delighted.  Our 
acquaintance  made  a  sudden  stride  ;  and 
she  began  to  converse  without  any  vestige 
of  reserve. 

The  laquuis  led  us  round  the  town,  point- 


Latin,  —  which  said,  '  To  labor  is  to  pray.' 
That's  a  better  religion  than  counting  one's 
beads  all  day  long." 

"  Different  folk  have  different  ways,  las- 
sie.    You   can't   have    oi'ie   way    for   all. 


ing  out  the  various  historical  buildings,  and  j  You're  strong,  ye  see,  Liz,  and  have  never 
trying  to  seduce  us  inside  a  number  of  had  a  tumble  yet,  as  one  may  say  :  I  hope 
churches,  which  we  resolutely  declined,  you  never  may.  Young  things  like  you 
At  last  we  came  to  the  Beguinage.  i  don't  know  what   troubles  are,  that  Imfit 

Have  you  any  curiosity  to  visit  a  nun-  '  broken-down  iblk  from  going  on  fighting 


nery  ? "  I  asked. 
■  "  None,"  re[)licd  Elizabeth.  "  What  do 
women  shut  themselves  up  like  that  for  ? 
So  stupid  I 


with  the  world." 

Our  walk  round  and  about  the  town 
lasted  more  than  two  hours  John  Pen- 
ruddocke,  simple,  unworldly  man,  clearly 


"  In  this   order  they  are   bound  by  no  I  never  concerned  himself  as  to  who  or  what 


vow,  and  may  return  to  the  world  when 
they  please.  Besides,  they  do  no  end  of 
good  among  the  sick." 

"  They  might  do  as  much  without  shut- 
ting themselves  up  behind  that  wall  and 
moat.  Perhaps  it  may  be  good  for  very, 
very  old  women,  who  can't  get  about,  — ■ 
but  girls!  Oh,  dear!  I  should  run  away 
the  first  week." 

"  You  haven't  'a  vocation,'  as  they  call 


I  was.  It  was  enough  that  I  was  a  good- 
natured  youngster,  and  had  suiiicient  in- 
telligence to  make  my  company  ])leasant 
to  his  child.  Nothing  seemed  more  natu- 
ral to  him  than  to  propose  that  we  should 
dine  together ;  and  we  did  so.  The  talk 
was  chiefly  between  Elizabeth  and  me. 
John  joined  in  occasionally  ;  but  he  left  the 
starting  and  main  race  of  conversation  to 
"  the  \oun2  folk."     Elizabeth  threw   her- 


it,"  said  I,  laughing.  "  But  the  strangest  self  into  evtry  subject  1  advanced  with  the 
thing  is  to  think  of  men  shutting  them-  intensity  of  a  passionate  nature  and  a  bril- 
selves  up  like  this.  I  can  understand  wo-  |  liant  intelligence,  to  whom  all  that  is  new 
man;  but  a  fellow  who  becomes  a  monk  is  matter  of  eager  inquiry,  all  that  Isold 
must  be  a  muff."  •  has    been    submitted  to,  and   disposed   of, 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


49 


bv  a  lieaflstron<j  and  immatiiro  jud^iiucnt. 
TliL-re  wt'io  111)  hall-tints  witli  her,  no  hesi- 
tation or  indifFerence  ;  whatever  her  ima- 
gination seized,  was  painted  in  stroma  black 
and  white  ;  thin;is  were,  beautiful  or  aboai- 
inable ;  to  be  vehemently  loved  or  as  vio- 
lently loathed  ;  supremely  rijxht  or  exeera- 
bly  wron'.^.  She  was  a  eurious  mixture  of 
the  child  and  the  girl,  with  just  the  first 
hint — no  more  —  of  womanhood.  Wild 
and  wilful  one  moment ;  earnest  and  deep- 
thoughted  the  next,  —  a  fine  nature,  whieh, 
as  yet,  had  had  too  little  culture,  but  had 
at  least  escaped  the  smoothing-iron  of  con- 
ventionalities. 

She  asked  me  endless  questions;  she 
evinced  the  liveliest  curiosity  about  English 
counti-y  life,  the  habits  and  treatment  of 
all  domestic  animals,  and  every  sort  of 
sport.  Then,  in  return,  she  described  to 
me  her  life  in  Virginia,  her  garden,  and 
her  pets.  But  the  range  of  our  talk  em- 
braced higher  subjects  than  these.  It  was 
on  Ibis  occasion,  as  she  told  me  long  after- 
wards, that  the  ardent  desire  for  knowledge 
was  really  kindled  within  her,  —  that  she 
was  first  penetrated  by  the  conviction  that 
ignorance,  if  not  disgraceiul,  might  at  least 
be  inconvenient.  From  what  small  seed 
may  not  great  fruits  be  grown  !  Assuredly 
I  had  no  pretensions  to  scholarship  ;  but 
my  love  of  history  and  poetry  had  made 
me  tolerably  conversant  with  all  the  well- 
known  facts  connected  with  the  Nether- 
lands, and  most  of  what  had  been  said  or 
sung  concerning  them.  When  I  spoke  of 
Mary  of  Burgundy,  of  Philip  van  Artveldt, 
of  William  the  Silent,  I  found  that  Eliza- 
beth did  not  even  know  their  names.  The 
appetite  which  I  had  whetted,  however,  she 
satisfied  by  diligent  study  of  history  from 
that  day  forwards. 

The  following,  which  was  to  be  John's 
last  day  in  Ghent,  we  spent  entirely  to- 
gether ;  and  Elizabeth  and  I  became  great 
friends,  after  a  certain  fashion,  that  is  to 
say,  she  was  as  thoroughly  at*  ease  with 
me,  and  contradicted  me  as  bluntly,  as  if 
we  had  known  each  other  for  months.  We 
took  a  walk  in  the  afternoon,  along  the 
canal,  when  an  incident  occurred,  only 
worth  record  inasmuch  as  it  cemented  our 
i'riendship,  and  was  the  cause  of  my  discov- 
ering myself  to  my  cousins. 

Elizabeth,  full  of  mad  freaks,  ran  on  be- 
fore us  now  and  again,  tugging  at  the 
barge-ro]ies,  jumping  into  the  barges  them- 
selves, skipping  and  leaping  backwards 
ami  forwards,  and  talking  to  us  all  the 
time.  In  one  of  these  evolutions  her  foot 
cau'iht  in  a  chain,  and  she  was  ])recipitate(l 
into  the  water.  The  next  minute  my  coat 
■was  off,  and  I  jumped  in  after  her.  There 
was  no  danger,  provided  she  did  not  clutch 


and  drag  me  down.  This  at  first  she  very 
naturally  tried  to  do,  Init  when  I  ciied  out  to 
her  that  if  she  persisted  in  this  course,  we 
shoulil  both  be  drowned,  she  at  once 
obeyed  my  injunctions  to  trust  herself  to 
me,  and  then  a  couple  of  strokes  enabled 
me  to  bring  her  to  shore.  There  stood  her 
father,  white  as  a  sheet,  and  unable  to 
utter  a  sound.  He  could  not  swim,  and 
the  sight  of  his  child  struggling  in  the 
water  had  almost  paralyzed  him.  Of  us 
three,  he  was  the  only  one  who  sufi'ered 
from  the  fright ;  and  he  did  not  recover 
from  the  shock  for  some  hours.  As  to 
Elizabeth,  the  only  effect  it  had  was  to 
make  her  uncommonly  quiet  for  the  rest 
of  the  evenintr. 


CHAPTER    XVn. 

John  Penruddocke's  gratitude  to  me 
was  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  service 
rendered.  It  was  in  vain  I  pointed  out 
that  any  one  of  the  bargemen  at  hand 
could  have  done  equally  well  what  I  did. 
John  persisted  in  regarding  me  as  the  pre- 
server of  his  child's  life. 

We  were  sitting  together  that  night,  — 
Elizabeth  had  gone  to  bed,  —  when  he 
said,  holding  out  his  hand,  — 

'•  I  wish,  my  dear  young  sir,  there  were 
any  way  of  proving  to  you  all  I  feel.  I 
can't  be  grateful  enough  for  the  chance 
which  brought  us  together  here." 

"  Nor  I,  Mr.  Penruddocke  :  I  may  truly 
say  that." 

"  I  hope  our  acquaintance  is  not  to  end 
here,  young  man,  but  that  you  will  consider 
me  as  a  friend  from  this  day  forward, 
though  one  old  enoucrh  to  be  vour  grand- 
father." 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  desire  nothing  so 
much." 

"  And  if  I  can  ever  serve  you  in  any  way," 
continued  John,  "  I'm  not  a  man  of  many 
words  —  but  if  I  can  ever  do  any  thing  lor 
you,  —  it  ain't  likely  —  but  if  i  can,  I  shall 
be  glad  to  show  you  I'm  not  ungrateful. 
You  have  laid  me  under  an  obligation  that 
nothing  can  wipe  away." 

"  No,  Mr.  Penruddocke,"  said  I  hurriedly, 
and  coloring  to  the  roots  of  my  hair,  "  I 
cannot  let  you  say  that.  It  is  I,  on  the  con- 
trary —  if  you  knew  who  I  was  —  if  you 
knew  my  name,  you  wouldn't  say  that." 

He  looked  at  me  in  surjirise  lor  a  mo- 
ment :  perhaps  he  thought  I  was  a  linen- 
draper's  apprentice  on  a  holiday,  then  he 
said  with  a  smile,  — 

"  It  matters  nothing  to  me  who  you  are. 
We  get  very  indifferent  to  rank  and  such 


60 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


thinirs  in  the  -wilds,  where  the  best  part  o' 
my  life  has  been  passed." 

'•  Well,  at  all  events,"'  I  blurted  out.  with 
a" great  etVort,  "  it  is  time  you  knew  who  it 
■was  you  ollV-red  your  friendship  to.  I  am 
Osmund  Penriiddocke,  Raymond's  brother. 
I  wouldn't  tell  you  before  ;  for  I  had  the 
greatest  desire  to  know  you,  and  I  telt  that 
of  eourse  you  and  your  child  would  shrink 
from  any  member  of  our  branch  of  the 
family." 

My  cousin  pushed  back  his  chair,  and 
looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot. 

'•  So  you  are  Osmund,  are  you?  Well  I 
to  be  sure  !  Onlv  think  ofthat,  now  !  Nav, 
but  you're  wron<r,  lad.  I  owe  none  of  you 
any  grudge.  Ye've  done  no  more  than  I 
should  have  done  in  your  place.  Of  course 
it  was  a  great  disappointment  to  me.  ^Ve 
thought  the  chain  of  evidence  was  complete 
—  well !  it  broke  down.  Luck,  ye  see,  was 
on  your  side  ;  but  is  that  a  reason  I  should 
bear  you  ill-will  ?  Not  at  all  :  I'm  glad 
to  call  you  my  cousin,  there!  I'm  glad  to 
think  the  same  blood  flows  in  our  veins,  Os- 
mund. You're  a  fine  younq;  chap  ;  and  it's 
a  pleasure  to  me  to  think  that  Lizzie  owes 
her  life  to  you,  instead  of  to  a  stranger." 

He  wrung  my  hand  again  in  his  brawny 
fist,  and  then  examined  me  more  atten- 
tively. 

"  You  ain't  like  your  mother  :  I  sup- 
pose you  took  after  your  father  V  The  Pen- 
ruddocke  nose,  I  see,  whereas  Raymond's 
got  the  regular  features  of  my  lady.  But  I 
like  your  face  better,  my  boy  :  I  don't  mind 
saying  ihat  much  ;  though  your  brother's 
a  comely  young  chap,  and  I  owe  him  no 
spite,  remember." 

"  You  are  very  generous,"  I  stammered. 
'•  Few  men  in  your  place  would  say  what 
you  do.  Yours  is  a  very  hard  case.  The 
property  cugld  to  be  yours.  No  one  is  more 
sure  of  that  than  I,  and  it  is  impossible  you 
an  ever  look  on  us  as  the  rightful  own- 
ers. I  am  afraid  Miss  Pcnruddocke  won't 
speak  to  me  when  she  knows  who  I  am." 

"  Won't  speak  to  the  man  who  saved  her 
life  !  You  haven't  such  a  bad  opinion  o' 
mv  lass  as  that  ?  She's  a  rou2h  little  dia- 
mond,  Ijut  she  is  one.  She  has  been  taking 
stock  of  you  all  day,  and  she  likes  you,  — 
I  see  that  fast  enough.  After  you  pulled 
her  out  of  the  water,  she  said  very  little, — 
she  was  a  bit  upset,  may  be,  but  you  wait 
till  to-morrow  morning  !  " 

And,  lo  !  the  next  morning,  as  I  was 
sitting  down  to  my  Vjreakfast,  my  Cousin 
Elizabeth  entered  the  room,  and  walked 
straight  up  to  me.  I  rose,  waiting  to  see 
what  she  would  do.  She  colored  a  little, 
and  then  hehl  out  her  hand. 

"  So  you  are  Cousin  Osmund." 

"  JTes,"  said  I.    "  I  hardly  expected  you 


would  speak  to  one  who,  you  had  made  up 
your  mind,  was  "  false  and  cold-!)looded.'  " 

She  looked  fixedly  at  me,  and  then  tossed 
her  head. 

"  Listeners  never  hear  any  good  of 
themselves,  —  not  'that  I  ifas  speaking  of 
you,  when  I  said  those  words ;  but  how 
mean  of  vou  to  listen  to  what  I  was  say- 
ing !  " 

'•  I  couldn't  help  it,  you  talked  so  loud 
all  the  time  I  was  at  supper." 

"  Then  you  ought  to  have  got  up,  and 
walked  away." 

"What  without  my  supper?  Come, 
that  is  hard.  I  did  not  know  the  least  who 
you  were,  and  your  conversation  interested 
me  exceedingly,  long  before  our  relation  to 
each  other  dawned  on  me." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  come  here  to  quarrel," 
said  the  girl,  playing  abstractly  with  a  knife 
on  the  table  ;  "  You  pulled  me  out  of  the 
water  yesterday,  and  I  suppose  I  must  be 
very  grateful.  Dad  says  so.  At  all  events, 
I  think  I  like  you  well  enough  to  call  you 
'  Cousin  Osmund.'  " 

"  Thank  you.     I  am  grateful  for  that." 

"  Don't  laujrh  at  me,"  said  she  lookin<T 
sharply  up  into  my  f  ice.  "  I  wonder  if  you 
are  true  ;  if  not  —  I  hate  lies.  Why  did 
you  call  yourself  Mr.  Smith  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  all  great  poeple  have  travelling 
names,  so  as  to  pass  unrecognized.  I  want- 
ed to  pass  unrecognized  by  a  very  sharp 
young  lady,  so  I  became  Smith  of  London 
for  a  few  hours." 

"Humph!  I  felt  I  had  seen  your  face 
somewhere,  though  it  had  only  been  for  a 
minute." 

Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  she  added 
eagerly,  — 

"  But  we  heard  you  had  run  away  from 
home  and  were  lost  :  was  it  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  ran  away,  and  enlisted." 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  answer  thar  (juestion.  Ask  me 
any  thing  that  has  no  relation  to  my  home, 
and  I  will  tell  you." 

"  Only  one  question  more  about  your  home 
—  have  you  been  there  since  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  have  seen  my  mother.  I  am 
here  with  her  full  knowledge,  if  you  mean 
that." 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  soldier  now  ?  '"  she 
pursued,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"  No :  but  I  am  to  be  one  again  shortly. 
My  discharge  was  purchased,  and  now  I  am 
to  have  a  commission  in  the  Guards." 

"  Shall  you  be  a  genera4  ?  " 

"  Not  at  once  —  some  day  I  hope.", 

"  When  you've  been  in  battle,  I  suppose  ? 
Oh  !  how  I  should  like  to  be  a  soldier  ! 
Tell  me  what  you  did  all  day." 

"  Drill,  parade,  make  our  beds,  clean  our 
arms   and   belts,  fetch  our    diuuers  ;     but 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


61 


most  of  the  timo  T  was  an  officer's  servant, 
ami  only  went  to  full  parades." 

"  A  servant !  I  should  hate  that.  But 
what  is  a  soldier's  drill  V  " 

"  I  will  drill  you,  it' you  hke.  You  want 
settinn;  up  very  much.  As  a  brother-soUiier 
used  to  say  to  ine,  '  You  poke  like  a  goose 
in  the  stubble.'  Now,  then,  heads  up,  arms 
straight  down,  elbows  in,  shouldei's  back. 
Don't  stick  yourself  out  like  that.  There, 
now,  put  out  your  rii;ht  toot,  and  balan(;e 
yourself  on  your  left.  See  how  you  totter  ! 
You  can't  bahince  yourself  a  bit  I  Try  to 
put  your  foot  slowly  to  the  ground  without 
shaking  your  whole  body,  then  do  the  same 
with  vour  left  foot,  —  that's  it." 

John  eanie  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later, 
and  found  Elizat)eth  marching  gravely,  in 
slow  time,  round  the  room,  and  I,  in  true 
sergeant-fashion,  walking  backwards  before 
her,  roaring  out  lustily  the  words  of  com- 
mand, "  Riiiht  half-turn  !  "  "  Mark  time  1  " 
"  Forwards !  " 

John  stood  and  laughed  heartily. 
"  Brayvo,  Osmund,  my  boy  !     It's  a  pity 
you  can't  stay  here,  and  drill  all  the  girls 
at  Mam'selle's  ;  but  they'd  be  fiilling  in  love 
Avith  you,  —  it  wouldn't  do,  I  suppose." 

"  All  girls  are  not  such  stupids,  dad,  — 
fallin'^  in  love,  indeed  !  "  and  Lizzie  halted. 
with  her  head  more  erect  than  I  had  yet 
succeeded  in  making  it. 

"Ah!  wit  till  youVe  a  bit  older,  Liz. 
You'll  know  what  it  is  some  day." 

"  Ot  eour.'^e  I  shall.  I  shall  fall  in  love 
when  I'm  —  let  me  see  —  when  I'm  thirty, 
I  think,  —  with  the  bravest  man  I  can  find  ; 
and  when  we're  married  "  — 

"  Ell  I  stop  a  bit!     How  do  yon  know 

the  cliap  will  like  you,  jMiss  Lnpudence  V  " 

She  made  no  reply,  but   looked  out  of 

window  ;  then  suddenly  turning  to  me,  she 

sai<l.  — 

"  Cousin  Osmund,  you  promised  to  an- 
swer any  cpiesiions  I  asked  that  were  not 
about  your  iiome.  AVill  you  answer  hon- 
estly the  one  I  want  to  ask  V  " 

"  If  I  can't  answer  it  honestly,  I  won't 
answer  it  at  all." 

"  Well,  then.  —  now,  dear  dad,  you 
musn't  Ijc  vexed,  but  the  other  day  I  over- 
heard a  man  say  "  — 

"  Ilalloo !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  I  thought  you 
couldn't  do  such  a  mean  thing?" 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  —  it  was  on  board 
ship.  And  I  heard  this  man  say  to  anotlier 
that  I  was  the  udiest  girl  he  had  ever  seen 
—  am  I  ?  " 

I  was  ratiier  staggered,  but  laughed. 
"  How  can  I  teil  V     He  is  very  lucky  if 
he  has  never  seen  an  uglier." 

"  That  is  not  an  honest  answer."  She 
fixed  her  keen  eyes  on  me.  "  Am  I  very 
ugly,  or  not?  " 


"  No,  not  now  :  T  mean,  that  T  don't  think 
so  now.  I  thought  so  when  I  first  looked 
at  you  ;  but  I'm  sure,  if  that  man  had  talked 
to  you  for  a  few  moments,  he  would  have 
changed  his  opinion." 

'•  There,  my  lass  !  now  I  call  that  a  bet- 
ter conn)liment  than  you  deserve.  If  your 
looks  are  good  enough  for  them  that  know 
you,  and  love  you,  Lizzie,  what  do  the  rest 
matter?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute  ;  then  she 
said  very  gravely  to  me,  — 

"  Do  men  ever  love  ugly  women  ?  " 

"Certainly:  I  have  heard  that  most  of 
the  women  who  have  been  c(debrated  for 
their  influence  in  the  world  have  not  been 
beauties." 

"  But  clever,  Liz,"  said  her  father,  think- 
ing that  he  would  improve  the  occasion  : 
"  the  less  looks  a  girl  has  to  boast  of.  the 
more  she  must  improve  her  wits.  Ain't 
that  so,  Osmund  ?  " 

'•I  su[ipose  so, — lint  my  cousin  Eliza- 
beth has  no  lack  of  wits.  I'll  be  bound, 
if  she  chooses  it,  she  beats  every  girl  at 
Mademoiselle  Pla(jant's  at  the  end  of  a 
year." 

Elizabeth  shook  her  hend,  but  I  saw  by 
the  expression  of  her  eye  that  she  was 
pleased. 

We  sat  down  to  breakfast,  and  John 
Penrnddocke  began  discussing  his  plans. 
lie  was  to  leave  for  Ostend  liy  the  after- 
noon train,  after  taking  Elizabeth  to  her 
school. 

'•  W^here  are  you  going  to  live  in  Eng- 
land ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  go  back  to  America  for  three  months, 
to  wind  up  my  affairs  there.  Humphrey 
wishes  us  to  settle  over  here  ;  and  so,  at  last, 
I  have  'taken  the  decision  :  but,  at  my 
time  o'  life,  it's  a  hard  wrencdi,  Osmund. 
It's  like  tearing  up  an  old  tree,  and  stick- 
ing him  into  the  ground  again.  My  roots, 
ye  see,  are  all  struck  there.  I  was  born  and 
bred  and  married  there ;  and  there  my  jioor 
wife  lies,  and  I  thought  to  lie  too  ;  but  it 
seems  it  ain't  to  be." 

"I  am  very  glad  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  come  and  live  in  P^nuhind,"  I  said. 
"  You  return,  then,  for  Elizabeth's  Christ- 
mas holiday.  Where  do  you  mean  to  take 
a  house  ?  " 

■  "  In  the  suburbs  of  London,  on  account 
o'  Humphrey,  who  wishes  us  to  be  near  him. 
He's  very  fond  o'  Liz,  you  see.  Else  I 
should  feel  the  change  less,  if  I  took  some 
bit  of  a  farm  in  the  countrj'." 

"  O  dad  !  Let  us  go  to  the  country. 
We  shall  die  of  those  horrid  streets,  I  know. 
We  were  not  made  for  towns,  you  and  I. 
Let  us  take  a  snug  little  farm,  and  have 
some  pigs,  and  some  cows  that  1  can  milk, 
and  a  horse  that  I  can  ride   into  market, 


52 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


Avitli  the  butter  and  cirprs.  Oh  !  how  jolly 
that  will  be  !  And  we'll  invite  very,  very 
particular  friends  to  stay  with  us  —  no  one 
else — and  Cousin  Humphrey  can  come 
down  when  he  likes." 

Jolin  stroked  his  girl's  head. 

"  Ah  !  it  soinids  pleasant,  my  lass;  Init 
it  won't  do.  They  tell  me  you  nuist  see 
something  more  of  the  ways  of  othei-  fulk 
now,  —  not  go  on  as  we  have  been  doing, 
living  like  Red  Indians,  my  dear.  You're 
half  a  little  savage  already,  Liz  ;  and  it's 
time  you  were  tamed.  Iluniplirey  says  so, 
and  I  know  he's  ri'dit.  I'^lse,  d've  think 
I'd  have  broken  up  the  old  home  ?  " 

I  noticed  that  Elizabeth,  instead  of  re- 
plying by  a  burst  of  passionate  regret  for 
her  old  home,  as  she  had  done  the  first 
night  I  met  her,  only  said  that  she  hated 
towns,  and  should  never  be  happy  but  in 
the  country,  where  she  could  do  just  what 
she  liked. 

"  Eh,  Liz,  but  that's  just  what  we  ain't 
meant  to  do.  That's  why  I  send  you  to  this 
Mani'sell's,  —  besides  the  book-learning,  to 
find  out  that  here,  in  the  world,  you  mayn't 
do  just  what  you  like.  Ain't  that  so,  Os- 
mund V  " 

"I  don't  know  much  about  '  the  world  ' 
myself,  Cousin  John,  except  a  barrack- 
room,  where  one  certainly  d(jesn't  do  as  one 
likes.  I  am  going  to  school  too,  like  Eliza- 
beth :  and  we'll  compare  notes,  when  we 
next  meet,  which  of  us  is  in  the  highest 
state  of  subordination  —  I,  in  the  Grena- 
diers ;  or  she,  at  Mademoiselle  ria9ant's." 

I  did  not  see  much  more  of  Elizabeth. 
She  and  her  father  were  alone  together  the 
greater  part  of  the  morning.  I  was  in  the 
salle  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  came  to 
bid  me  good-by.  The  poor  child's  eyes  were 
red  and  swollen,  but  she  was  perfectly  calm. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  happy  at  your 
school,"  I  said. 

"  How  can  I  be  hapyy  without  dad  ?  ' 
she  answered  almost  fiercely.  "  You  use 
wordj  that  mean  nothing,  like  every  one 
else" 

"  I  mean,  that  I  hope  you  will  be  less  un- 
happy than  you  expect.  There's  nothing 
r.ke  work  to  keep  otfthe  blues.  I  found  it 
so  when  I  was  a  recruit." 

"  I  shall  Avork,  because  I've  promised 
dad,  —  not  because  it  can  make  any  differ- 
ence," she  said,  with  a  look  of  determina- 
tion. "I  hate  it.  No  one  can  understand 
what  it  is  to  me  to  be  without  him,  and  to 
be  a  prisoner  behind  four  great  walls. 
Good-by  !  " 

She  held  out  her  jiand  rather  coldly.  I 
felt  infinite  sympathy  for  her,  jioor  child, 
though  she  did  not  think  it. 

"I  hope  we  shall  meet  next  summer, 
Elizabeth,"  I  said. 


She  turned  away,  without  a  word,  and 
left  the  room. 

I  met  John  Peni-uddocke  two  hours  later 
at  the  railway-station,  where  we  were  to 
separate.     He  looked  very  sad. 

"  Eh  !  but  it's  hard  jiarting  with  an  only 
child,  OsmumJ.  My  poor  lass  !  she  bore 
u[)  to  the  end,  before  me,  because  I  begged 
of  her,  for  my  sake,  not  to  give  way  ;  but 
as  soon  as  the  door  was  shut  betwixt  us  in 
the  passage,  I  heard  her  sobs.  She  is  a 
strange  mixture,  is  my  Liz,  —  the  soft 
heart  of  a  cliild  with  the  pluck  of  a  man. 
God  bless  you,  my  lad !  we  shall  meet 
again  in  a  few  months,  I  hope,  and  meet 
not  only  as  cousins,  but  old  friends." 

I  found  a  copy  of  "  Philip  van  Arte- 
veldt "  in  Brussels^the  next  day,  and  sent 
it,  without  a  word,  to  Elizabeth. 


CHAPTER   XVm. 

I  RECEIVED  my  commission  in  the  course 
of  the  winter,  and  about  the  middle  of 
February  was  installed  in  a  lodging  in 
Mount  Street,  and  made  my  first  plunge 
into  London  life.  The  water  was  cold,  and 
the  current  strong :  my  Uncle  Levison 
undertook  to  teach  me  how  to  breast  it ;  and 
an  able  instructor,  no  doubt,  he  would  have 
proved  to  one  better  able  to  profit  by  his 
advice.  Worldly  wisdom,  however,  I  never 
accjuired,  and  I  fear  now  I  never  shall. 
When  he  pointed  out  to  ine  the  men  whose 
society  I  should  affect,  and  why,  his  words 
fell  upon  inattentive  ears  :  it  was  not  in  my 
nature  to  cultivate  intimacy  for  anv  other 
consideration  than  a  strong  personal  liking. 
When  he  said,  "  Be  careful  how  you  express 
an  opinion  about  anyone, — always  wait  to 
find  out  what  the  person  you  are  talking 
to  thinks,  before  you  commit  yourself,"  his 
advice  was  so  utterly  antagonistic  to  my 
liahit  of  direct  utterance  of  my  thought, 
that  he  migiit  as  well  have  told  me  never 
to  converse  but  in  Greek.  Finally,  when 
he  said,  "  ximuse  yourself  with  women,  but 
take  care  whatever  you  do,  never  to  get 
entangled.  Never  icrite  any  thing.  Let- 
ters are  the  very  devil !  Talk  what  non- 
sense you  like.  A  flirtation  with  a  married 
woman  in  a  certain  position  (take  care 
she's  in  the  right  set),  you  will  find  rather 
an  advantage ;  but  she  mustn't  get  too 
strong  a  hold  on  you,  or  you'll  find  it  a 
deuced  bore.  If  she  takes  to  being  jealous, 
your  life  is  not  worth  having."  When  he 
used  such  language  as  this,  I  only  laughed. 
I  felt  my  heart  to  be  proof  against  all  the 
sirens  of  fashionable  or  unfashionable  life ; 
but  had  it  not  been  so,  the  caution  would 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


Lave  been  wholly  unavailing;.  The  idea  of 
applying  to  love  the  precept,  "  Thus  far 
shalt  tliou  go,  and  no  farther,"  was  to  mo 
absoluttily  comical.  I  knew  that,  in  my 
case,  whether  wisely  or  unwisely,  it  would 
be  "  all  or  nothing." 

My  uncle  really  took  considerable  trou- 
ble about  me.  In  his  own  way,  nothing 
could  be  kinder.  He  introduced  me  to 
every  man  •'  worth  knowing,"  as  he  termed 
it,  in  and  out  ot  the  club ;  he  took  me  to 
all  his  pet  tradesmen,  and  pointed  out  tliose 
who  were  to  be  avoided  as  "  infernal  duns," 
He  procured  for  me  invitations  to  the  few 
lar'^e  parties  and  political  drum^  that  were 
going  forward,  and  presented  me  to  so 
many  ladies  in  succession,  that  I  found  it 
quite  hopeless  to  remember  one-half  of 
their  names.     What  could  he  do  more  ? 

I  had  written  constantly  to  Evelyn,  but 
had  only  heard  twice  from  her  in  the  course 
of  six  months.  She  told  me  her  mother 
objected  to  her  writing  often ;  but  I  must 
not  think  she  forgot  me  ;  and  with  this  I 
was  fain  to  be  content.  One  morning, 
shortly  after  my  arrival  in  London,  I  re- 
ceived the  following :  — 

"  Beacmanoir,  March  4. 
"My  dear  Osmuxd, — -You  are  now 
settled  in  London,  as  a  Guardsman,  and  I 
am  sure  you  are  too  sensible  not  to  under- 
stand that  it  would  not  be  at  all  the  tldng 
for  my  darling  child  to  continue  writing  to 
you,  as  she  has  hitherto  done.  Your  dear- 
est mother  and  I  are  quite  of  one  mind 
upon  this  point ;  for  you  know  she  feels 
towards  Evelyn  as  if  she  were  her  own 
child,  I  trust  the  cousinly  regard  my 
darling  has  felt  for  you,  dear  Osmund,  may 
never  again  receive  the  ruda  shock  it  did 
when  you  ran  away  from  home  ;  and  that 
you  may  never  give  your  angelic  mother 
any  further  cause  for  anxiety.  Still,  it  is 
much  better,  and  I  leel  sure  your  own  (jnod 
sense  will  see  it  in  that  light,  that  there 
should  be  no  correspondence  between  Eve- 
lyn and  you,  now  that  she  is  no  longer  a 
child,  —  for  she  is  very  nearly  seventeen. 
I  always  feel  the  deepest  interest  and  nnx- 
ielij  about  you,  my  dear  Osmund  :  it  will  be 
the  greatest  pleasure  to  us  both  to  hear 
that  you  are  doing  well  in  your  new  career. 
You  cannot  have  a  better  example  than 
your  beloved  brother,  of  whom  your  peer- 
less mother  may  justly  feel  proud  ! 

"Ever  your  ailectionate  cousin, 

"  Belinda  Hamleigh." 

Of  course  I  was  a  good  deal  irritated, 
and,  in  the  first  heat  of  my  indignation,  I 
was  unreasonable  enough  to  tliink  that 
Evelyn  ought  to  disobey  this  mandate  :  as 
if  a   gentle,  fawn-like  creature,  who   had 


never  left  her  mother'si  side,  never  diso- 
beyed or  disputed  her  authority,  could  sud- 
denly belie  her  whole  natiu'e,  and  do  that 
which  would  seem  to  her  utterly  unjustifi- 
able, I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  suftplicat- 
ing  lier  to  rescind  her  cruel  injunction ; 
but  I  pleaded  my  cause  so  passionately 
and  unwisely  that  1  received  a  reply  by 
return-{)Ost,  saying  it  was  clear  that  I  at- 
tached an  undue  importance  to  a  mere 
child's  letters  (this  after  reminding  me  that 
Ii^velyn  was  no  longer  a  child!  —  but  Mrs. 
Hamleigh  was  never  famous  for  consist- 
ency), and  that  such  extreme  folly  on  my 
part  only  proved  how  necessary  it  was  that 
the  correspondence  should  cease, 

I  made  up  my  mind  at  once.  Mrs.  Hara- 
leigh's  prejudice  against  me  was  only  too 
evident  from  her  first  letter.  If  Evelyn 
and  I  were  parted  for  an  indefinite  time, 
without  a  word  on  my  side,  every  effort 
would  be  made  to  loosen  the  hold  I  had 
upon  her  heart.  But  for  the  rupture  of  our 
intercourse,  the  vow  which  was  registered, 
in  my  heart  might  not  have  found  open 
expression  so  soon  :  her  mother,  however, 
had  left  me  no  choice,  Evelyn  must  receive 
the  assurance  of  my  imalterable  attaoJa- 
ment;  though  I  would  not  attempt  to  bind 
her,  child  as  she  still  lived  in  my  memory, 
by  any  form  of  promise. 

And  to  that  effect  I  wrote.  I  said  that 
she  had  no  choice  but  to  obey  her  mother's 
will  at  present,  and  to  give  up  writing  to 
me  ;  and  that  as  for  me,  knowing  it  would 
distress  her  to  receive  my  letters  contrary 
to  her  mother's  wish,  I  should  make  no 
attempt,  after  this,  to  communicate  secretly 
with  her.  But  I  conjured  her,  lor  all  that, 
not  to  forcret  me,  though  it  mitrht  be  long 
ere  we  met ;  for  I  could  never  return  to 
Beaumanoir,  and  Mrs,  Hamleigh  was  not 
likely  to  invite  me  to  "  The  Cottage," 
When  Evelyn  was  introduced  into  the 
world,  no  one  could  prevent  our  meeting ; 
and,  in  the  interval,  I  pledged  myself  to  re- 
main constant  to  her.  Until  then  I  would 
ask  for  nothing;  but  if,  when  she  left  the 
schoolroom,  the  love  of  her  childhood  was 
unchanged,  I  assured  her  that  I  felt  confi- 
dent of  overcoming  her  mother's  opposi- 
tion, and  every  other  obstacle,  in  time. 

I  enclosed  this  letter  to  Sparshott,  our  old 
butler,  who  was  always  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  I  bade  him  deliver  it  privately  into 
Miss  Ilamleigh's  own  hand. 

When  I  had  done  this,  I  felt  happier.  I 
woulil  not  regard  this  as  moi-e  than  a  dark 
cloud  blown  across  the  summer  of  my  sky  : 
it  was  not  to  be  eternally  overcast  on  that 
account.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  I  had 
no  one  to  whom  to  confide  my  troubles.  I 
longed  for  some  good  woman  friend,  into 
whose  sympathizing  breast  1  could  pour  my 


54 


PENKUDDOCKE. 


complaints;  but  as  yet  I  had  no  friends, 
only  a  daily-inereasiiig  array  of  acquaint- 
ances. Several  tellows  at  the  club,  of  my 
own  stamlinjj;,  1  liked,  anil  was  sooii  (juile 
at  home  with  them;  but  it  was '•home" 
in  a  foreii^n  land.  They  knew  little  or 
nothing  of  me;  i  knew,  still  less  about 
them  ;  and  confidence  between  men  is  a 
])lant  of  slow  growth.  But  a  man  who  lias 
never  opened  his  heart  to  another  will 
sometimes  be  moved  to  trust  a  woman  on 
the  shortest  acquaintance.  It  was  so  in 
my  case. 

1  had  called  at  Madame  d'Arnheim's 
house  on  my  arrival  in  London,  and  had 
learnt  that  she  was  absent.  1  lelt  my  card, 
though  I  thought  it  probable  —  no,  not 
probable,  but  possible,  that  she  might  have 
forgotten  my  name  by  this  time.  Nearly 
a  mouth  later,  1  received  a  little  note:  she 
had  just  come  to  town,  and  begged  me  to 
call  any  day  at  live  o'clock.  The  very 
next  afternoon  at  dusk  found  me  in  Ches- 
ham  Place. 

It  was  a  moderate-sized  house,  very  sim- 
ply furnished,  but  made  bright  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  dowers.  Madame  d'Arnheim 
had  introduced  the  German  itishion  of  ivy 
trained  up  columns  of  trellis-work  in  the 
corners  of  the  rooms,  and  over  a  screen 
■which  encircled  her  writing-table.  It  was  a 
bleak  March  evening.  In  the  streets  all  had 
looked  pinched,  and  blue,  and  wind-bitten ; 
here  there  was  a  general  aspect  of  cheer- 
fulness and  warmth.  The  room  was  aglow 
"with  the  ruddy  firelight,  which  fell  upon 
Madame  d'Arnheim's  simple  brown  dress 
and  the  edges  of  her  soft  light  hair.  She 
sat  with  her  back  to  the  window,  and  her 
feet  on  the  fender  ;  and,  as  I  entered,  she 
laid  a  book  upon  her  lap,  and  held  out  her 
hand,  saying,  — 

"  How  good  of  you,  Mr.  Penruddocke,  to 
answer  my  note  so  quickly  !  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you  again.  I  have  often  thought 
over  our  steamboat  acquaintance,  and  won- 
dered whether  you  would  find  me  out  when 
you  came  to  London.  I  have  only  been 
home  a  week,  and  found  your  card  on  my 
return.  And  now  tell  me  all  about  your- 
self.    How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  " 

'•  I  believe,  really,-  only  five  weeks ;  but 
it  seems  about  five  months." 

"  What !  Has  the  time  hung  so  heavy 
on  your  hands?  How  is  that  V  Have  you 
not  already  made  heaps  of  acquaintances  ?  " 

''Oh!  yes — only  too  many.  I  forget 
half  their  names.  I  have  been  to  so  many 
places,  and  have  seen  so  many  new  faces 
every  day,  that  it  accounts,  I  suppose,  fur 
the  time  seeming  so  long ;  besides,"  I  added, 
with  a  little  hesitation,  "  other  reasons, 
perhaps." 

JShe  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  as  if 


waiting  for  what  I  should  add  ;  then,  will 
the  fine  tact  of  good-breeding,  she  took  nc 
further  heed  of  my  embarra.--sment,  bul 
passed  on  to  another  subject.  She  askeu 
me  what  I  had  been  doing  since  we  met, — 
a  narrative  which  Avas  summed  up  in  li 
very  few  words ;  and  then  she  inquired 
how  I  liked  military  life  V 

"  You  forget  I  am  an  old  soldier,"  I  said, 
laughing  ;  '•  though  I  am  seeing  militarj 
life  under  rather  different  auspices  now, 
I  like  my  regiment  immensely  ;  but  I  should 
prefer  going  on  active  service  to  kicking 
my  heels  about  London  drawing-rooms." 

*  ■n  •  •  1 

"  Thank  you.  That  is  not  civd  to  the 
London  drawing-room  you  are  in." 

"Oh!  I  am  sure  you  know  I  didn't 
mean  that  !  I  always  express  myself  awk- 
wardly." 

"  Never  mind.  Perhaps  I  like  you  tht 
better  tor  not  hiving  acquired  a  superfine 
London  polish  yet.  A  little  nature  is  v^'vy 
pleasant.  I  see  so  little  of  it.  ' /cA  haU 
sie  Ueber  icie  Bilr  als  AJf'e,'  as  we  say  in 
Germanv." 

"  The  choice  lies,  then,  between  my 
being  a  bear  or  an  ape  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  bear-element  in  you  is  stron'j,'' 
she  said,  smiling.  "  It  makes  you  long  lor 
fighting.  You  will  never  become  an  ape, 
I  think.  But  as  to  active  service,  as  there 
is  peace  all  over  the  world  just  at  present, 
thank  Heaven !  you  must  be  content  to  re- 
main at  home,  liy  the  by,  how  is  the  lit- 
tle cousin  ?  " 

I  sighed,  and  murmured  something  ;  and 
then,  by  degrees,  how  I  scarcely  know,  it 
filtered  out,  and  she  knew  all  my  trouble. 
Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  she  was : 
she  listened  and  sympathized,  as  women 
only  know  how  ;  while,  at  the  same  turn;, 
by  taking  a  common-sense  view  of  the  po- 
sition, which,  with  my  excited  feelings,  I 
was  incapable  of  forming  for  myself,  she 
administered  just  the  stimulant  that  my  case 
required. 

"  I  feel  for  you  very  much,"  she  said. 
"  I  see  enough  of  your  character  to  know 
what  the  breaking  off  of  this  correspond- 
ence must  be  to  you ;  but  I  cannot  say 
that  Mrs.  Hanileigh  lias  acted  otherwise 
than  as  any  sensible  mother  would.  She 
sees  that  a  boy  and  girl  love'  has  sjn-ung  up 
between  you  and  her  daughter.  Is  this  a 
marriage  she  would  wish  V  Putting  aside 
the  fact  that  you  are  a  younger  son,  what 
yuu  have  told  me  of  yourself  would  cer- 
tainly seem  to  justify  her  discouraging  such 
an  idea.  You  ran  away  from  home,  and 
enlisted ;  you  were  not  heard  of  lor 
months  ;  you  have  quarrelled,  or  half-quar- 
relled, with  your  mother.  All  this  would 
naturally  leatl  Mrs.  Ilamleigh  to  disap- 
prove of  an  engagement  between  you  and 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


55 


her  daufrlitcr.  What  you  have  to  do  is  to 
prove,  by  your  conduct,  that  she  is  mis- 
taken in  licr  (i])inion  of  you.  Let  not  the 
ill-natured  world  be  able  to  throw  a  stone 
against  you,  Mr.  Penruildocke.  Be  steady 
and  constant  in  your  attachment  ;  and,  if 
Miss  Hanilei2;h  is  the  girl  you  believe  her 
to  be,  a  year  or  tAvo's  silence  will  not  change 
her." 

The  door  at  this  moment  opened  ;  and  a 
tall,  fine  man  sauntered  in,  with  the  air 
that  told  he  was  master  of  the  house. 

"  Oh  !  is  that  you  ?  INIr.  Penruihlocke 
—  my  husband.  Mr.  Penruddocke  is  my 
acquaintance  of  the  Antwerp  steamer,  Carl, 
about  whom  I  told  you." 

He  shook  hands  with  me;  an<l  the  fire- 
light fell  clearly  on  his  lace,  which  I  had 
before  seen  but  indistinctly.  I  believe  it 
was  thought  handsome  —  the  features  were 
shai-ply  cut,  if  that  constitutes  beauty ; 
but  the  face  was  bloodless,  and  the  eyes 
like  two  gray  flints,  which  might,  indeed, 
upon  occasion  be  made  to  strike  fire,  but 
were,  in  ordinary  life,  utterly  dead  and  col- 
orless. His  voice  had  a  hard,  metallic  ring  ; 
and  his  manners  the  fine  veneer  which  is  gen- 
erally found  amono:  diplomatists,  —  the  best 
counterft-it  of  that  ingi'ained  courtesy  which 
is  the  outgrowth  of  a  genial  nature.  He  was 
dressed  with  great  care.  He  always  smiled 
when  he  spoke  to  his  wife,  which  he  did  in 
English,  with  a  strong  German  accent,  and 
with  a  sort  of  intimate  politeness,  which 
struck  me  as  strange  ;  but  I  had  never  seen 
a  foreign  husband  and  wife  together  before, 
and  could  not  tell  if  their  intercourse  was 
commonly  of  this  nature. 

Alter  a  few  civil  words  to  me,  "  Are  you 
going  to  Lady  Castle's  to-night  V  "  he 
asked,  turning  to  his  wife.  She  went  on 
knitting. 

"  Iso.  —  I  think  I  shall  remain  at  home. 
You  dine  out,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  I  am  going  with  Walstein  to  the 
'  Strand  ; '  but  I  will  meet  you  at  Lady 
Castle's  after,  if  you  like  to  go." 

'•  Oh  !  1  know  what  that  means :  you  will 
be  there  at  one  o'clock:,"  she  said,  with  a 
laugh  which  did  not  sound  to  me  very  joy- 
ous, —  "  when  I  shall  be  in  bed  and  asleep, 
Ihope." 

'•  Do  come,  INIadame  d'Arnheim,"  I  said. 
"  I  have  got  a  card  from  Lady  Castle,  whom 
I  don't  know  ;  but  my  uncle  says  I  nmst 
go." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  of  course 
you  nmst  go,  —  it  is  the  thing.  All  the 
best  people  who  are  in  town  will  be  there, 
—  and  by  '  best,'  you  understand  that 
among  them  are  perhajjs  some  of  the  worst  V 
but  that  is  of  no  consequence,  I  am  always 
told." 

"  My  wife  inquires  too  curiously  what 


people  are,  without  being  content  with 
what  they  seem,"  said  Arnheim,  showing 
his  white  teeth. 

"  Well,"  I  laughed,  turning  to  her,  "  if 
you  won't  come,  and  tell  me  '  what  to  eat, 
drink,  and  avoid,'  I  shall  be  sure  to  be 
tempted  by  all  the  worst  dishes." 

"  I  never  Ibund  that  any  one  avoided  a 
dish  because  he  was  told  it  was  unwhole- 
some," she  replied.  "  However,  it  is  pure 
laziness  my  not  going, —  these  parties  are 
so  little  interesting  to  me  ;  and  I  will  screw 
up  my  courage,  Mr.  Penruddocke,  for  the 
sake  of  giving  you  a  ?ne/m  of  your  feast  to- 
night. I  so  seldom  have  the  happiness  of 
finding  any  one  who  does  not  know  it  all, 
and  is  not  thoroughly  blase." 

'•  I  hope  you  are  flattered  at  being  con- 
sidered so  innocent,"  said  Arnheim,  with  a 
mocking  smile ;  then,  turning  to  his  wife, 
"  Mr.  Penruddocke  has  accomplished  moie 
than  I  can  ever  do ;  but  then  I  am  afraid 
you  do  not  believe  in  my  virtue,  as  you 
seem  to  do  in  his,"  and  he  laughed  a  short, 
hard  laugh.  "  Mr.  Penruddock,  I  hope  my 
wife  may  long  continue  in  the  same  belief, 
and  that  you  will  persuade  her,  consequent- 
ly, to  go  out  more  than  she  has  done  of  late, 
whereby  we  shall  all  be  gainers." 

He  ended  with  a  little  bow  in  her  direc- 
tion, much  as  he  would  have  done  towards 
a  lady  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made 
yesterday.  Madame  d'Arnheim  knitted  on 
in  silence.     I  rose  to  take  my  leave. 

The  count  walked  down  stairs  with  me. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  new  dancer  at  the 
'  Strand '  ?  No  ?  I  have  been  three  nights 
running." 

"  Rather  monotonous,  isn't  it  ?  "  I  asked 
dubiously.  "  One  '  breakdown  '  is  very 
like  another." 

"  It  is  not  the  dancing, —  but  such  a  fig- 
ure !     The  best-made  woman  in  London." 

•'  You  don't  say  so  !  " 

"Will  you  come?  I  will  give  you  a 
place  in  my  box  ?  " 

''  No,  thank  you.  I  shall  go  to  Lady 
Castle's  early." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Lady  Castle's  was  one  of  the  least 
spacious  houses  in  Belgrave  Square ;  and 
its  size  was  a  valid  excuse  for  never  invit- 
ing above  one-half  of  her  accjuaintance. 
The  other  half  spoke  evil  of  Lady  Castle, 
it  is  true ;  but  her  charming  manner,  when 
they  met,  generally  made  them  condone 
her  sins  of  omission,  until  the  ne.xt  offence. 
People  might  shake  their  heads;  but  when 
she  threw  herself  on  your  mercy,  and  of- 
fered her  cheek  to  be  smitten  (or  kissed,  as 


66 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


the  case  mijrht  be),  who  could  resist  her  ? 
She  wiis  like  a  n;iu'j;lity  but  en-^aglnii  child, 
—  thouiili,  ill  reality,  her  first  youth  was 
past ;  and  her  face,  when  seen  under  a 
strong  <j:as-lamp,  or  by  the  searchinfr  liiijlit 
of  (lay  (unsottened  by  a  spotted  veil),  told 
that  she  had  lived  every  hour  of  her  life  ; 
but  her  fi<inre  was  light  and  round  as  at 
sixteen,  and  when  "  got  up  "  of  an  evening, 
she  was  still  an  extremely  pretty  woman. 
"\Mion  all  vestige  of  beauty,  however,  shall 
have  departed,  so  long  as  life  lasts,  the  wo- 
man's undefinable  attraction  will  remain 
unchanged.  People  may  say  what  they 
like  of  her  when  she  is  absent ;  they  cannot 
resist  the  influence  of  her  voice  and  smile 
when  she  is  by. 

She  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  sur- 
rounded by  a  knot  of  men,  among  whom 
were  my  uncle,  a  certain  inane-looking  Lord 
Al'i^ernon,  —  with. whose  lace  and  whose 
character,  as  a  notorious  fortune-hunter,  I 
was  already  familiar,  —  Sir  Walter  Selden, 
and  others.  There  were  two  women  in 
the  group  ;  one  a  regally-beautiful  person, 
with  a  diamond  crescent  on  her  brow,  and 
no  clothes,  to  speak  of,  on  her  back  ;  the 
other,  a  lady  no  longer  young,  who  sat  on 
the  lower  steps  of  the  upper  flight  of  stairs, 
and  "chaffed  "  whoever  went  up  or  down. 

"  Lady  Castle,"  said  my  uncle,  "  here  is 
my  nephew,  whom  you  were  good  enough 
to  send  me  a  card  for." 

Lady  Castle  gave  a  gracious  little  wave 
of  her  body,  inimitable  by  any  one  not  "  to 
the  manner  born." 

"  Your  debut  in  London,  I  think,  Mr. 
Penruddocke  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  cut  in  my  uncle,  patting  me  on 
the  back,  "you  behold  a  youth  who  never 
set  foot  in  a  London  drawing-room  till 
three  weeks  ago." 

"  And  you  know  no  one  yet,  Mr.  Penrud- 
docke ?     What  Arcadian  freshness  !     How 


wish  I  were  you 


That's  awfully  cruel,"  murmured  Lord 
Algernon.  "  You  wish  you  didn't  know 
any  one,  —  what  shall  we  all  do  ?  " 

"  K  I  didn't  know  you."  smiled  Lady 
Castle,  "  I  should  have  the  pleasure  to  look 
forward  to  making  j'our  acquaintance." 

"  And  still  have  some  illusions  left  about 
Algy  ! "  laughed  a  good-natured  face,  be- 
longing to  a  burly  frame,  the  owner  of 
which  seemed  only  known  as  "  Old  Jack." 
His  name  was  Horton. 

"  Illusions,  Jack  ? "  said  my  uncle. 
"  Who  wants  illusions  ?  Facts  are  the 
things  we  all  want,  —  realities  1  Some  like 
Alg}',  in  pounds  of  gold ;  some  like  Shylock, 
in  pounds  of  flesh,  eh  ?  " 

The  wit  was  not  excessive,  but  the  laugh- 
ter was  loud. 

"  Here  you  have  them  I  "  cried  the  lady 


seated  on  the  stairs,  looking  over  the  bal- 
ustrade at  a  huge  back  whif-h  was  ascend- 
ing. '"No  illusion  about  Mrs.  Guildmore's 
shoulders.  It's  a  comfort  in  these  days, 
when  one's  faith  is  shaken  in  most  things, 
to  find  something  one  can  really  depend 
upon." 

"  The  girl's  balance  at  Coutts's  is  solid 
enough,  i\h's.  Chaflinch.  Algy  means  to 
depend  on  tlutf,  if  he  can." 

"  What  an  idiot  you  are.  Jack  !  She'll 
hear  you,"  returned  Lord  Algernon. 

"  What  are  the  odds  against  him  now  ?  " 
laughed  the  beautiful  lady,  whose  manners 
were  not  as  stately  as  they  should  have 
been,  to  suit  her  statuesque  appearance. 

"  Just  five  to  one.  Lady  Ancastar,"  said 
my  uncle,  "  and  I  don't  mind  if  I  (mter  an- 
other horse;"  then  he  turned  and  whis- 
pered something  to  Lady  Castle. 

The  portly  frame  of  Mrs.  Guildmore,  and 
her  daughter,  who,  report  had  already  told 
me,  was  the  greatest  heiress  goin'i,  were  by 
this  time  landed  opposite  Lady  Castle. 
The  mother  was  an  honest-looking  vulgar 
old  soul ;  the  daughter,  a  plain  girl,  with  a 
sensible  countenance,  who  looked  out  of 
her  element  in  this  assemblage.  She  would 
have  been  at  home  in  a  quiet  country  party, 
where  fashionable  gossips  were  unknown, 
and  women  wore  last  year's  gowns.  Sur- 
rounded by  all  these  pretty  butterflies, 
newly  painted  from  Paris,  she  was  as  mis- 
placed as  a  buttercup  in  a  bouquet  of  gar- 
denias, and  evidently  knew  not  what  to 
say,  in  the  tide  of  nonsense  that  ebbed  and 
flowed  around. 

."  Mr.  Penruddocke,"  said  Lady  Castle, 
touching  me  with  her  fan,  "  let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  Miss  Guildmore."  And  there  I 
was  nailed,  as  much  to  my  own  annoyance 
as  to  Lord  Algernon's,  whose  flabby  offer- 
ing of  small  talk  was  thus  intercepted. 
The  girl  seemed  simple  and  sensible 
enough  ;  but,  as  I  had  no  fancy  to  be  en- 
tered on  the  betting-list,  I  did  not  follow 
her  when  she  moved  on,  after  a  lew  minutes. 
Mrs.  Guildmore,  by  the  sheer  force  of 
weight,  had  borne  down  all  oppo>ition  in 
the  doorway,  and  was  cleaving  a  pus- 
sage  for  herself  and  daughter  through  the 
crowded  rooms.  A  crowd  of  men  swam 
after  them,  like  carp  after  a  loaf  of  bread. 

"  Osnmnd,  my  boy,"  said  Uncle  Levison, 
"there's  an  opportunity  for  you  to  redeem 
all  the  erroi's  of  your  past.  You've  as  good 
a  chance  as  any  other  fellow.  The  mother 
is  a  sensible  old  woman,  who  doesn't  '  hold 
to  a  title,'  as  she  expresses  it,  but  is  going 
to  let  the  girl  choose  ibr  herself." 

Before  I  could  reply,  a  very  artificial- 
looking  lady,  with  a  lisp,  and  highly  orna- 
mented manners,  accosted  my  uncle.  I 
heard  him  address  her  as  Mrs.  Hawksley, 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


57 


and  tlien  I  turned  aw.iy.  As  I  did  so,  my 
foot  cau<:ht  in  Mrs.  Chaffinch's  dress,  and 
tore  it.  She  laughed  good-humoredly  when 
I  ajmloiiized. 

"  Never  mind :  it  does  as  an  introduc- 
tion, Mr.  Penruddocke  ;  lor  I'm  such  an 
ohl  admirer  of  your  uncle's,  that  we  must 
know  one  another,  and  so  we  may  as  well 
break  the  ice  at  once." 

"  I  didn't  know  there  could  be  ice  where 
you  were,  Mrs.  Chaffinch,"  said  Sir  Walter 
Selden. 

"Didn't  you?  I  can  tell  you  I'm  dan- 
gerously slippery  at  times.  Impudent  crea- 
tures like  you,  who  don't  know  how  to  keep 
your  distance,  generally  get  a  fall.  Ha, 
ha !  And  now,  Mr.  Penruddocke,  tell  me, 
you've  been  here  at  least  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  whom  have  you  fallen  in  love  with  V 
I  give  you  your  choice  ;  but  you're  bound 
to  fall  in  love  with  some  one." 

"  It  is  Vemharras  du  cUolx"  I  returned, 
rather  shyly,  not  feeling  quite  up  to  the 
sort  of  repartee  that  seemed  to  be  expected 
of  me. 

"  Oh,  a  base  subterfuge  !  What  do  you 
say  to  Lady  Ancastar  ?  —  beautiful,  isn't 
she  ?  Such  a  head,  and  such  shoul- 
ders !  " 

I  assented  mildly  ;  when  Sir  Walter  said, 
wiih  a  sardonic  smile,  — 

"  Lady  Ancastar,  with  that  crescent,  looks 
like  Diana  gone  astray,  —  in  the  woods,  of 
course,  I  mean." 

"  And  almost  ready  for  the  bath," 
laughed  another  man,  in  a  lower  voice. 

Mrs.  Chaffinch  now  taking  up  the  fire, 
there  was  a  smart  interchange  of  somewhat 
equivocal  jokes,  interspersed  with  a  great 
deal  of  laughter  ;  and  I,  seeing  an  opportu- 
nity, as  I  thought,  of  penetrating  the  dense 
crowd  in  the  doorway,  slipped  behind  my 
uncle,  in  the  hope  of  finding  Madame  d'- 
Arnlieim.  Impossible ;  a  surging  mass  of 
white  shoulders  and  black  coats,  of  heads 
crowned  with  other  people's  hair,  and  com- 
plexions bought  with  a  price,  met  my  eye ; 
but  as  to  discovering  the  particular  head  of 
which  I  was  in  search,  it  was  as  hopeless  as 
it  was  now  to  move  either  backwards  or 
forwards.  "  And  this  is  called  j^leasure  !  " 
I  said  to  myself. 

At  that  moment  my  ear  caught  a  name 
behind  me,  which  made  me  start. 

"  His  mother  is  Belinda  Hamleigh's 
great  friend,  isn't  she  ?  Ya-as,  of  course, 
your  beautiiial  sister,  Lady  Rachel.  Ya-as 
—  oh!  I  know  all  about  him.  Father 
dead,  isn't  he  ?  Ya-as,  and  the  property 
a  fine  one  —  long  minority,  I  think  — 
ya-as." 

It  seemed  unnecessary  for  my  uncle  to 
say  any  thing,  as  the  lady  answered  all  her 
own    questions   in    this    manner ;    but  she 


paused  for  a  moment,  and  he  cut  in  with  a 
laugh, — 

"  Counting  yoiu'  chickens  before  they're 
hatched,  Mrs.  Hawksley.  Unfortunately 
for  this  boy,  he  is  the  second  son.  I  wish 
he  wasn't — worth  twenty  of  the  other;  but 
so  it  is." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity !  I  thought  this  was 
the  one  that  Belinda  hoped  —  ya-as.  I 
assure  you.  Col.  Rich,  for  my  part,  I  think 
second  sons  are  quite  as  agreeable  some- 
times as  eldest  ones  ;  and  then  they're  so 
useful  for  balls  —  ya-as.  My  girl  always 
says  they  give  themselves  more  trouble  — 
ya-as,  she  does,  really." 

There  was  a  break  in  the  crowd,  and  I 
caught  sight  of  INIadame  d'Arnheim  in  a 
corner.     I  threaded  my  way  to  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  find  you  at  last  —  only, 
being  a  second  son,  perhaps  you  won't  care 
to  talk  to  me,"  I  began,  laughing.  "I  have 
just  learnt  that  they  are  useful  at  balls, 
and  can  sometimes,  but  with  difficulty,  be  as 
pleasant  as  elder  ones." 

"  You  forget  I  have  no  daughter.  But 
who  has  been  making  you  so  M'orldlv- 
wise  ?  " 

"  A  Mrs.  Hawksley,  I  believe  her  name 
is.  She  seems  to  know  the  Hamleighs. 
Who  is  she  ?  Any  very  tremendous  swell  ?  " 
"  By  no  means.  Iler  husband  is  member 
for  the  county  in  which  the  Castles  and  the 
Duke  of  Kendal  live.  He  has  a  large 
property,  and  his  wife's  whole  aim  in  life  is 
'to  get  on,'  as  it  is  termed.  She  is  a  not 
uncommon  mixture  of  extreme  silliness  and 
worldly  sharpness;  and  by  dint  of  wrig- 
gling and  pushing,  she  has  achieved  her 
object.  There  are  very  few  houses  where 
she  does  not  go.  But  oh  !  wlmt  a  life  of 
incessant  toil,  —  what  slavery,  what  morti- 
fications, what  humiliation,  to  obtain  it 
all  I  "  ■ 

•■'  I  thought  Laily  Castle's  was  one  of  the 
most  exclusive  sets  V  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  is  politic.  Mrs.  Hawksley 
is  a  country  neighbor;  and  it  would  be  un- 
wise to  make  an  enemy  of  lier,  tor  many 
reasons  I  cannot  enter  u])on." 

"  And  those  Guildmores  —  what  can 
make  her  ask  Ihem  f  They  look  quite  out 
of  their  element." 

"  Half  the  men  in  Lady  Castle's  set  are 
hoping  to  marry  the  girl  :  they  are  asked 
on  that  account.  Do  you  know,  the  girl 
told  m(!  the  other  night,  with  a  look  half 
jiiteous,  half  comical,  that  she  had  had  a 
pi'oposal  at  every  ball  she  had  been  at 
since  she  came  to  London  ?  She  is  so  dis- 
gusted that  I  don't  think  any  man  who 
pays  her  such  ojien  attention  has  a 
chance." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  Lord  Algernon  ?  " 
"  I  am  not  sufficiently  interested  —  I  will 


68 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


leave  that  to  Carl.     He  is  a  fi-iond  of  liis 
—  none  of  luinr." 

''  But,  of  course,  you  know  all  these  peo- 
ple very  well  V  " 

She  shruLiged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"  They  are  the  only  people  I  see  ;  and 
yet  I  am  not  intimate  with  any  one  of 
them." 

"  Lady  Castle  seems  charming  —  don't 
you  like  her?  " 

"  No.  I  don't,"  she  said  decidedly.  "  I 
don't  like  any  woman  I  can't  trust ;  but  I 
will  not  talk  about  her  —  at  ail  events,  now. 
Only  that  is  one  of  the  dishes  which,  if  you 
take  my  advice,  yon  will  avoid." 

"  Like  all  forbidden  fruit,"  said  I,  laugh- 
ing,. "  it  looks  tempting.  And  the  gor- 
geous Lady  Ancastar  —  what  do  you  sav 
ito  her  ?  " 

'•  AVith  twice  the  beauty,  none  of  the  in- 
sidious charm  of  the  other.  A  vulgar- 
minded  woman,  with  no  positive  harm  in 
her,  I  think,  but  whose  aim  is  to  be  con- 
spicuous as  the  leader  of  the  fastest  set. 
She  does  most  outrageous  things,  which 
scandalize  people,  and  most  of  all  the 
dufdiess,  her  mother-in-law.  They  say  she 
rode  a  donkey-race  on  Hampstead  Heath 
last  summer." 

"Lord  Ancastar  is  the  Duke  of  Kendal's 
son,  isn't  he  ?  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is 
he  V  " 

"  Clever/.s/;,  —  the  leader  of  the  new  dem- 
ocratic party  ;  but  a  man  of  no  deep  con- 
victions, I  fancy.  He  takes  up  this  line, 
as  his  Avife  does  hers,  for  the  sake  of  notori- 
ety. His  radical  opinions,  which  he  an- 
nounces on  every  occasion,  irritate  the 
duke  as  much  as  Lady  Ancastar's  pranks 
do  the  stately  old  duchess." 

"  A  nice  family  party.  Now  for  an- 
other entree  —  I  don't  mean  it  as  a  pun  — 
but  the  black  man,  just  come  in,  talking  to 
Lady  Castle  in  the  doorway." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  so  villanous  a  face  ? 
I  am  sure  that  man  has  the  evil  eye.  I 
shudder  whenever  he  comes  near  me  ;  and 
yet  half  these  ladies  are  mad  about  him. 
His  name  is  Benevento  —  Count  Beneven- 
to,  he  calls  himself;  and  he  is  a  irreat  gam- 
bier." 

"  Clearly  another  dish  to  be  avoided," 
said  I.  "  Li  fact,  according  to  you,  Mad- 
ame d'Arnlieim,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  better 
go  in  for  general  abstinence.  By  the  by, 
is  there  a  Lord  Castle  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  never  see  him.  He  is  a 
book-worm,  and  rarely  leaves  the  coun- 
try." 

•'  And  lets  his  wife  come  to  London  by 
herself?     That  seems  to  me  very  odd." 

'•  You  will  find  so  many  things  that 
are  much  odder,  before  you  have  lived 
among  us  long,  Mr.  Penruddocke,  that  it 


will  not  strike  you.  You  will  find  hus- 
l)ands  and  wives  completely  seitarated, 
though  living  in  the  same  house.  Tlu're  is 
a  solitude  greater  than  living  in  the  coun- 
try alone." 

She  turned  away  her  head,  and  our  con- 
versation was  interrupted  for  some  minutes 
by  a  brisk  little  old  gentleman,  in  apjK'.ar- 
ance,  very  like  the  comic  father  in  a  farce, 
who  came  up  and  shook  hands  with  Mad- 
ame d'Arnlieim.  His  conversation  sparkled 
with  wit,  and  with  French  and  German 
quotations,  which,  it  was  evident,  he 
was  pleased  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
airing.  Madame  d'Arnheim's  brilliant 
intelligence  was  displayed,  of  course,  far 
more  now  than  in  talking  to  me.  I  stood 
by,  and  listened  with  admiration  and 
amusement.  As  he  shook  her  hand  at 
parting,  he  stooped  down,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice,  with  a  laugh,  — 

"  You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  room 
who  can  converse.  The  others  I  talk  to, 
and  pay  compliments  to,  —  I  never  do  to 
you." 

'•  That  is  the  greatest  you  can  pay  me." 
And  then  he  passed  on. 

"  Who  is  that  old  fellow,  who  seems  to 
be  a  combination  of  Voltaire  and  Mezzo- 
fanti  ?  " 

She  told  me  who  he  was,  —  a  name  I 
knew  well,  as  one  of  the  most  eminent  of 
the  day,  —  but  I  never  made  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  only  introduce  the  episode  here, 
to  show  in  what  estimation  my  friend  was 
held  by  those  whose  standard  of  judgment 
was  high. 

WTiile  we  were  discussing  the  dignitary 
who  had  just  passed  on,  my  attention  was 
attracted  to  a  voung  and  frairile-lookins 
woman,  who  aj)proached,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  foreign  attache.  Their  communi- 
cations  were  of  a  confidential  nature  ap- 
parently. He  was  tall  and  aquiline,  and 
bent  over  his  companion  till  his  mustaches 
almost  touched  her  forehead.  She,  upon 
her  side,  gazed  up  into  his  small  brown 
eyes,  wrapt  in  the  beatitude  of  vacancy. 
Surely  it  must  be  a  flirtation  of  the  very 
tendei'est  character.  "  My  heart  beats 
only  for  you,"  he  seemed  to  be  saying.  But 
a  stoppage  in  the  crowd  pressed  him  close 
to  me ;  and  I  caught  the  actual  words 
which  fell  in  honeyed  accents  from  those 
lips,  — _ 

'•  Moi,  je  prefere  la  glace-  k  la  vanille  — 
et  vous  V  '■' 

I  turned  to  Madame  d'Arnlieim  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Well,  appearances  are  deceptive  cer- 
tainly. Who  would  have  thought  that 
fellow  ivas  talking  of  an  ice  ?  " 

"  It's  all  part  of  the  same  thing,"she  re- 
plied, with  a  smile  in  which  there  was  more 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


59 


of  sadness  than  mirth.  "  That  silly  little 
woman  —  slie  is  married  —  has  only  one 
idea,  to  be  '  the  fashion.'  There  is  really 
no  harm  in  her,  but  she  has  an  utterly  un- 
occupied lite.  She  sees  that  all  tlie  leaders 
of  society  have  their  admirers ;  and,  though 
she  doesn't  care  the  least  about  that  man, 
or  any  other,  slie  thinks  it  '  the  thing  '  to 
liave  I  he  semblance,  at  least,  of  a  flirtation. 
It  is  like  a  parody  upon  your  poet's  line, 
*  Assume  &  failing,  if  you  have  it  not.'  " 

"  Jiy  Jove  !  "  I  suddenly  exclaimed,  fix- 
ing my  eyes  upon  a  man's  head  in  the 
crowd. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  ray  com- 
panion. 

"  To  think  of  meeting  him  here  !  By 
Jove  !  how  gh^d  I  am  !  " 

"  Who  is  it  V  " 

"  My  old  master,"  I  returned,  "  whose 
shoes  I  blacked  for  more  tlian  three  months, 
—  one  of  the  princes  of  the  earth,  —  such 
a  prime  fellow  !  "  and  I  told  her  all  about 
Artliur  Tufton. 

"  Well,"  said  Madame  d'Arnheim,  rising 
"  it  is  getting  late.  Give  me  your  arm 
down  stairs,  and  you  can  return  to  vour 
friend." 

"  Won't  you  wait  for  Count  d'Arn- 
heim ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head, 
with  a  smile.  "  People  never  wait  for 
their  husbands.  He  may  not  come  till  two 
o'clock,  or  perhaps  not  at  all,  —  if  he  is 
amused  elsewhere." 

We  reached  the  stairs,  where  Mrs.  Chaf- 
finch was  still  posted,  entertaining  her 
circle  by  random  shots  fired  at  those  who 
passed  her.  No  matter  at  what  cost, 
wliether  of  delicacy  or  kindliness  (and  Mrs. 
Chaffinch  is  not  an  ill-natured  woman  at 
heart),  she  must  procure  a  laugh,  or  that 
chorus  will  leave  her  for  some  other  woman 
who  is  "  better  fun."  Catching  sight  of 
Madame  d'Arnheim,  she  cries  out, — 

"  What !  going  already,  my  dear  ?  See 
what  it  is  to  be  a  virtuous  woman,  — -  re- 
tiiing  to  all  the  secret  sweets  of  domestic 
life  at  this  early  hour  1  " 

Madame  d'Arnheim  colored,  but  she 
only  said  coldly  that  she  was  tired,  and 
passed  on.  ]\Irs.  Chaffinch  pursued  her 
over  the  banisters,  with  her  shrill  cackle. 

"  Come  to  Evans's  to-morrow  night,  will 
you,  my  dear  ?  We  want  to  seduce  your 
husb.ind  to  join  our  party.  Do  come  also, 
and  do  something  improper  for  once." 

"  I  wds  there  once,"  replied  Madame 
d'Arnheim,  over  her  shoulder,  but  not 
sto])piiig  on  her  course  downwar*!,  —  "1 
ux'/.s  tiu'i'e  once,  and  did  not  think  it  im- 
proper, only  dull.  But  to  be  improper  is 
not  always  to  be  amusing,  Mrs.  Chaifinch. 
Good-ni^ht." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  nRiGiiT  smile  broke  over  Tufton's 
face  as  he  caught  sight  of  me. 

"  Halloo !  Smith,  —  I  mean  Penruddocke, 

—  my  dear  boy,  how  are  you  V  I  am 
really  delighted  to  meet  you.  If  London, 
like  another  place,  was  not  paved  with 
good  intentions,  I  should  have  found  you 
out  before  this  ;  but  I've  been  v(>ry  busy 
during  the  few  days  I've  been  here." 

"  And  how  long  do  you  stay  V  "  I  askod. 

"You  haven't  heard,  then  ?  I  am.  try- 
ing to  eflf'ect  an  exchange  into  the  Guards. 
Six  months  of  India  was  enough  for  me  : 
I  couldn't  stand  it.  Lord  Tufton,  who  has 
never  done  any  thing  ibr  me  before,  said 
he  Avould  buy  my  exchange ;  so  I  came 
home  straight,  and  I  hope,  now,  the  thing 
is  pretty  nearly  settled." 

Of  course  I  was  delighted  at  the  news; 
and  then  I  gave  him  a  succinct  history  of 
myself  since  we  had  parted. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  a  London  life  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  So-so.  I  like  my  regiment :  rhey  are 
very  jolly  fellows ;  and  you  know  I  am 
really  fond  of  soldiering.  My  expei'ience 
in  the  ranks  tauLrht  me  a  ureat  deal 
which  I  find  useful." 

"  And  do  you  go  in  much  for  this  sort  ot 
a  thing  ?  "  he  said,  with  rather  a  contempt- 
uous look  over  the  heads  of  the  assembly. 
"  It  doesn't  seem    to  me   very  interesting, 

—  perhaps  because  I'm  an  outsider." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I'm  not  ft/ase,  like  you  ; 
and  every  thing  amuses  me.  I  remember 
vou  always  despised  society,  even  in  the  old 
days." 

"  Not  despised,"  he  raid  rather  sadly. 
"  I  envy  people  who  can  be  easily  amused. 
The  only  simple  pleasure  I  have  lett,  I  aai 
afraid,  is  my  violin.  I  have  already  received 
an  invitation  to  join  the  'Erratic  Harmon- 
ists,' which  I  mean  to  do,  and  grind  away  in 
an  atmo-phere  of  beer  and  "baeky  once  a 
week.  That  will  be  more  coniicnial  to  me 
than  these  fine  parties.  What  can  a  fel- 
low who  knows  nothing  of  London  gossip 
talk  about  to  these  women  ?  They  don't 
care  for  Mozart  and  Beethoven,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them  play  at  whist  with  pound 
points,  and  five  pounds  on  the  rubber,"  I 
said  slyly. 

"  I  never  play  with  women,"  he  replied. 

"  Are  you  a' —  what  is  the  word  V  — 
misogamist  V  "  I  asked,  laughing.  "  I  re- 
member you   always  avoided  the  fiur  sex." 

'•I  did,  and  I  do  still,"  he  answered; 
and  a  shade  passed  over  his  brow.  "  If  I 
ever  marry,  wiiich  is  most  unlikely,  I  shall 
not  choose  my  wife  from  a  London  draw- 
ing-room.    \jy  the  by,  who  is  that  girl  in 


GO 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


blue?  The  one  that  absurd  fellow  is 
evidi'iitly  makiivj;  up  to?  " 

"  A  Miss  Guilihuore,  —  a  2;rcat   heiress." 

"  A  pity,  —  I  fancy  I  could  talk  to  her  : 
she  has  an  honest,  simple  expression." 

••  You'd  better  not  try.  Sho  fancies, 
naturally  cnou'^h,  every  man  that  talks 
to  her  is  after  her  money." 

"  Let  us  walk  throu'j;h  the  rooms  :  thev 
are  eettini;-   thinner." 

AVe  reached  a  liltle  boudoir  where  there 
■was  a  whist  table,  at  which  sat  Sir  Wal- 
ter Selden,  and  three  others.  The  faces 
of  two  were  unknown  to  me.  Selden's 
partner  was  the  Italian,  Benevento,  whose 
appearance  had  so  much  struck  me  earlier 
in  the  evening. 

I  had  now  a  good  opportunity  of  watch- 
ing him.  He  was  under  the  middle  height, 
and  to  jud'ie  by  the  breadth  of  his  shoul- 
ders, the  depth  of  his  chest,  and  the  set- 
ting of  his  limbs,  possessed  of  uncommon 
nniscular  strength.  He  looked  as  if  lie 
wore  stays ;  but  the  manner  of  present- 
ing Lis  full-breasted  shirt-front,  and  his 
being  excessively  girt  in  at  the  waist,  may 
have  t)roduced  a  I'alse  impression.  There 
were  men,  and  women  too,  who  swore  that 
he  rouged  ;  but  this  I  really  think  was  un- 
true. The  colors  of  his  face  were  deep 
and  rich ;  wonderfully  glittering  eyes,  and 
hair  and  beard  of  the  bluest  black ;  eye- 
brows that  met  across  his  forehead,  a  well- 
shaped  nose,  and  dazzling  white  teeth. 
Undeniably  handsome ;  but  one  of  the 
worst  fac"s  it  has  ever  been  my  ill-fortune  to 
behold.  I  understood  what  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim  meant,  as  I  looked  at  him;  and  an 
indescribable  loathing,  so  utterly  unprece- 
dented in  my  expeiience  that  it  now  seems 
to  me  to  have  been  a  presentiment  of  all  I 
was  to  suffer  because  of  this  man,  possessed 
me.  His  manner,  like  his  countenance, 
indicated  to  me  the  presence  of  two  char- 
r.cteristics.  Clever  and  fluent,  I  saw  that 
the  upper  floor  of  his  house,  where  he  "  re- 
ceived," was  gaudily  decorated  and  fur- 
nished ;  but  throuih  the  half-open  door,  at 
moments.  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  basement, 
where  all  was  stone  and  iron.  If  ever  a 
man  was  unscrupulous,  if  ever  a  man  was 
untrustworthy,  it  was  the  Italian  before  me. 

He  glanced  up  from  his  cards,  as  we 
entered,  and,  to  my  surprise,  smiled  and 
nodded  at  Tufton.  There  was  a  pile  of 
gold  beside  him;  two  or  three  men  stood 
round,  and  were  betting  on  the  rubber. 
Sir  Walter  Selden  and  his  partner  had 
been  winning  ;  but  the  former  took  it,  as  he 
did  his  reverses  (which  were  more  com- 
n)on),  unmoved.  That  jaunty  supercili- 
ous manner  never  deserted  him,  though  he 
was  sometimes  in  "reat  straits  ibr  a  five- 
pound  note. 


Tufton  soon  became  absorbed  in  watch- 
ing the  game  ;  but  there  was  only  one  more 
rubber  ;  then  Selden's  antagonists  rose,  as 
the  rooms  were  nearly  empty.  Though  as- 
sured by  Benevento,  with  what  seemed  to 
me  questionable  taste,  that  Lady  Castle 
would  not  object  to  their  playing  for  the 
next  hour,  they  elected  to  defer  their  re- 
venge to  another  opportunity. 

"  Well,  Arthur,  how  have  you  been 
getting  on  ?  "  asked  Selden.  "  Ain't  your 
eyes  dazzled,  after  a  course  of  garrison 
hacks  and  nautch  girls  ?  " 

"  I'm  an  old  eagle,*  and  can  look  at 
the  sun  itself,"  replied  Tufton  with  a 
suule. 

"  Will  you  come  to  my  rooms  presently? 
It's  too  early  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Not  to-inght,  Walter,"  he  returned 
quickly.  "  I'm  tired,  and  am  off  now,"  and 
they  separated. 

The  tide,  which  was  ebbing  down  stairs, 
bore  us  along  with  it.  The  last  thincj  I 
saw  was  Benevento  seated  by  Lady  Castle 
in  the  first  drawing-room :  the  few  people 
who  remained  seemed  to  have  divided,  by 
natural  selection,  into  couples. 

The  hall  was  one  serried  phalanx  of 
cloaked  and  hooded  ladies ;  and  through 
them  I  observed  d'Arnheim  makinii  liis  wav 
from  the  street.  He  passed  me,  and  nod- 
ded. I  thought  he  would  inquire  if  his 
wife  had  gone  home  ;  but  he  turned  to  Mrs. 
Chaflinch,  who  stood  near  me. 

'•  Is  there  any  one  left  up  stairs.  Is  my 
lady  gone  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  There's  safety  in  numbers. 
At  least  six  men  are  left.  But  where  have 
3'ou  been,  you  dissipated  wretch?  In  very 
immoral  company,  no  doubt." 

"  What,  did  you  think  I  had  been  here 
all  the  evening  ?  " 

She  hit  him  with  her  fan,  and  declared, 
with  a  shriek  of  laughter,  that  he  was  an 
incorrigible  monster ;  and  then  I  heard  no 
more,  for  we  had  secured  our  coats,  and 
were  in  the  street.  As  we  walked  along, 
arm  in  arm,  I  said, — 

"  How  long  have  you  known  that  Bene- 
vento ?  " 

I  fancied  there  was  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion ;  but  ]>erhaps  it  was  only  that  he  was 
getting  his  cigar  to  draw  :  he  gave  a  Iou't 
pulF  and  replied,  — 

"  I  met  met  him  last  night  at  Selden's." 

"  You  are  an  old  friend  of  Selden's  ?  " 

"  He  is  my  cousin.  He  sent  me  Lady 
Castle's  card,  and  insisted  on  my  coming 
to-night,  though  I  told  him  this  sort  of 
thing  was  quite  out  of  my  line." 

But  I  was  not  going  to  let  Arthur  escape 
in  this  way. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  high  plav  at  Sel- 
den's ?  " 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


61 


"  Well,  —  there  i's  play  ;  yes." 

"  And  is  that  Beiievento  a  friend  of 
his  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  a  friend,  —  he  seems 
to  know  hiai  pretty  well.  A  clever  dog, — 
nothinix  he  can't  do,  I'm  told  —  sings  like 
a  bird." 

"  H'm  1  looks  like  a  bird  of  ill  omen,  I 
think." 

'•  You  are  severe.  Master  Penruddocke." 

"  Well,  God  never  gave  a  man  such  a 
countenance  as  that  for  nothing,  I'm 
Bure." 

"  It's  imwise  to  trust  first  impressions. 
I  am  —  how  many  years  older  than  you? 
eight  or,  nine  ;  and  I  have  learnt  that." 

"  What !  don't  you  believe  in  human  ex- 
pression ?  I'll  be  bound  that  fellow's  as 
false  as  he  can  be." 

"I  hope  not,  lor  the  ladies'  sakes,"  said 
Arthur,  with  a  smile.  "  He  has  great  suc- 
cess with  them,  I  am  told.  It  is  even  said 
that  our  fair  hostess  to-night  is  not  alto- 
gether insensible  to  the  charms  of  this 
Kizzio." 

I  pursued  the  subject  no  fni-ther,  and  we 
Walked  down  Piccadilly,  talking  of  othci- 
matters.  I  asked  him  where  he  was  stay- 
ing. 

"  At  Limmers',  for  the  present ;  but  I 
must  Look  out  for  permanent  lod'j;ings." 

"  Come  and  take  the  ground-floor  under 
me.  It  is  vacant,  and  will  ju.^t  suit  you. 
It  will  be  like  old  times.  If  both  our  ser- 
vants should  be  out,  why,  you  know,  I  can 
valet  you." 

He  laughed,  and  then  grew  suddenly 
grave. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  do  you  any 
good.  I'm  not  the  best  com])aniou  for  a 
lad  of  your  age." 

''  Well,  I  know  your  Aveakness.  '  No 
man  is  a  hero  to  his  caht  de  chamhi-e'  and 
I  assure  you  there's  no  danger  for  me.  I 
haven't  the  smallest  taste  for  gambling,  in 
any  shape." 

"Then  there  is  the  violin,  —  have  you 
well  considered  what  a  trial  that  is  to  the 
nerves,  at  all  hours?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart !  I  don't  know  what 
nerves  are.  It  will  do  me  good  to  hear 
you  aiain  grinding  away  at  the  old  '  Kreut- 
zcr  Sonate.'  Ami  you  may  i)lay  in  the 
dead  of  night,  —  nothing  ever  wakes  me.'" 

"  You're  a  good  fellow,  Penruddocke," 
said  he,  wringing  my  hand,  "'  and  your 
cheery  young  n;iture  would,  I  dare  say, 
rouse  me  when  I  am  low,  —  as  I  too  often 
am.  It  did  so,  in  the  olil  days,  to  hear  you 
whistling  as  you  brushed  my  clotlies." 

A  fortnight  later  he  was  gazetted  to 
Her  Miijesty's  llegiment  of —  (iuards,  and 
was  installed  in  the  apartment  beneath 
mine. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

F«OM  this  time  forwards,  I  was  always 
at  Madams  d'Arnheim's  three  or  lour  times 
a  week.  Whenever  I  was  not  on  duly,  or 
engaged  elsewhere,  I  was  there  for  an  hour 
or  two  at  dusk.  It  became  as  much  a  mat- 
ter of  habit  as  going  to  my  club.  Visits 
of  ceremony  I  alyured.  I  never  cared  to 
go  anywhere  that  I  did  not  like  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house,  and  feel  more  or  less 
"  at  home."  This  I  very  soon  did  at  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim's. 

When  strangers  called,  I  seldom  staid 
long  :  what  I  enjoyed  were  the  long  quiet 
tete-U'leles  with  a  woman  who  ti-eated  me 
as  a  younger  brother  (lecturing  me  with  a 
freedom  which  was  the  best  proof  of  the 
interest  she  took  in  me),  antl  whose  con- 
versation was  a  wholesome  antidote  to 
much  that  I  heard  and  saw  elsewhere. 
Except  the  darkest  secret  of  my  short  lifi-, 
she  got  to  know  most  things  thatconcernol 
me  :  I  could  talk  to  her  uni'eservedly  of 
Evelyn,  of  my  prospects  for  the  futuri',  of 
my  old  home,  and  of  the  happy  days  in  my 
dead  father's  time,  that  could  return  no 
more.  I  am  bound  to  confess'  I  received 
l)ut  little  confidence  in  return.  She  seldom 
reverted  to  her  own  past,  and  unless  goad- 
ed by  some  sharj)  memory,  causing  her  to 
yield  to  a  momentary  weakness,  showed  no 
portion  of  her  own  imbittered  heart. 
D'Arnheim  I  rarely  saw,  unless  I  dined 
there  ;  and  then,  in  the  company  of  half  a 
dozen  other  men,  I  never  came  into  much 
personal  contact  with  him.  He  always 
welcomed  me  with  urbanity,  always  had  a 
word  or  two  of  "  chaff,"  always  seemed 
quite  willing  that  I  should  come  to  his 
house  as  often  as  I  felt  inclined.  I  had  a 
secret  conviction  that  he  looked  upon  me 
as  a  harmless  greenhorn :  but  1  was  not 
quite  so  green  as  not  to  suspect  that  he 
hailed  the  fact  of  his  wife's  friendship  for  a 
young  man  as  a  sort  of  make-weight  to  his 
own  neglect.  His  opinions  and  his  princi- 
j)les, liowever,  were  alike  indillerent  to  me: 
I  had  too  strong  a  regard  for  Madame 
d'Arnheim  not  to  feel  a  certain  resentment 
towards  her  husband  ;  but  as  regarded  his 
behavior  towards  myself,  I  had  certaiidy 
no  reason  to  conq)lain. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Madame  d'Arnheim 
I  might  have  sunk  into  a  slough  of  idle- 
ness ;  but,  findin"-  mv  defective  knowledge 
of  French  when  I  met  foreigners  at  her 
house,  she  urged  my  taking  lessons  in  that 
tongue. 

"  You  have  plenty  of  time  on  your  hands. 
Billianfs  and  rackets  are  very  good  things 
in  tlniir  way ;  but  you  may  well  devote  a  few 
hours  in  the  week  to  acquiring  something 


62 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


wliioh  will  be  a  possession  to  you  for  the 
rest  of  j'our  life." 

So  I  (locked  olf  an  hour  from  my  morn- 
in<x's  ride  three  days  in  the  week,  and  went 
bard  at  it.  And  aiuon<T  the  many  debts  of 
gjratitude  I  owe  to  ^larie  d'Arnlieiui,  not 
the  lea>t  is  that  she  made  me  a  tolerable 
French  scholar. 

Tulton  and  I  always  breakfiisted  to- 
gether. However  late  lie  had  been  the 
previous  nip;ht,  —  and  he   now   played  at 

the club    almost   nigiitly,  —  he    never 

failed  to  a{)pear,  and  .«howed  no  other 
traces  of  his  dissipation  than  by  his  varia- 
ble spirits.  lie  now  discussed  his  losses 
and  winniniTS  0])enly  with  me.  Of  course 
it  would  have  been  absurd,  as  well  as  use- 
less, for  one  to  preach  to  him.  He  was 
much  older,  much  cleverer,  and,  in  most 
ways,  a  much  better  man  than  myself. 
How  he  could  lead  such  a  life,  how  he  could 
consort,  by  preference  (for  it  came  to  that), 
■with  men  of  the  stamp  of  Benevento,  I 
could  not  understand.  Sometimes  this 
wonderment  reached  the  stage  when  it  be- 
came irritation,  to  learn  that  he  had  lost 
lar'i'elv  to  the  Italian  the  ni;iht  before,  and 
I  could  not  reirain  from  some  expression  of 
my  sentiments.     He  never  took  it  in  ill- 

Sart,  though  he  was  too  generous  not  to 
efend  his  companions,  and  to  maintain 
that  they  were  no  worse  than  himself.  He 
did  not  care  much  for  Benevento, — no; 
but  allowance  must  be  make  for  foreigners  ; 
their  ways  were  not  always  as  our  ways ; 
and,  after  all,  he  was  a  clever  dog,  and 
amusing  enough  for  half  an  hour.  As  to 
Seiden,  under  all  that  sarcasm  and  appar- 
ent selfishness,  he  was  really  good-natured, 
and  the  rest,  he  assured  me,  were  excellent 
fellows;  of  course  they  and  he  were  ruin- 
ing themselves,  —  that  he  knew  very  well, 
but  a  man  must  have  some  excitement,  and 
it  was  the  only  thing,  except  his  violin,  he 
cared  for. 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  in  unusually 
good  spirits,  lie  would  defend  himself  by 
some  such  verbal  paradox  as  this  :  — 

"  Alter  all,  I  don't  know  that  it's  worse 
than  stock-jobbing,  or  any  other  game  of 
chance  which  bears  the  more  creditable 
name  of  '  speculation.'  And  marriage,  — 
such  marriages  as  are  generally  made  here, 
at  least,  —  what  is  it  but  gambling?  The 
stakes  are  high,  there  is  a  certain  skill  shown 
in  the  plav,  and  the  result  is,  —  nothinrr  but 
luck,  Pen." 

"  Well,  try  your  hand  at  it :  it's  a  better 
game  than  this,"  I  rejilied,  one  morning, 
when  he  thus  plaj'fully  fenced  with  me. 
"  Seriously,  why  don't  you  think  of  marry- 
ing? There's  Miss  (niiMmore,  whom  I  sat 
next  to  at  dinner  last  night :  .she  told  me 
she   had   heard  you  play  at  the  '  Erratic 


Harmonist'  concert,  and  praised  you  tre- 
mendously; it  was  evident  the  sul)ject  had 
so  much  attraction  fur  her  that  I  gave  her 
her  head,  and  talked  of  \-ou  through  two 
entire  courses.  The  ground  is  prepared, 
and  now  "  — 

''You  young  ass!"  launched  Tiifton 
heartily.  "  This  is  what  it  is  for  babes  and 
sucklings  to  meddle  with  matters  beyond 
their  years.  No  woman  ever  praises  —  I 
might  say  she  rarely  speaks  of —  any  man 
she  really  fancies.  Probably  she  has  a 
secret  penchant  for  you.  Not  that  I  wish 
you  to  yield  to  it,  in  spite  of  her  money.  It's 
time,  if  you  think  of  marrying,  ten  years 
hence." 

And  this  frafrment  of  conversation  leads 
me  here  to  mention  two  things.  In  conse- 
quence  of  my  friend's  banter  whenever  I 
began  to  speak  of  love,  and  of  his  affecting 
to  consider  that  I  was  too  young  to  have  any 
serious  thoughts  on  the  subject,  I  never 
could  make  him  my  confidante  as  regarded 
Evelyn.  I  knew  that  he  would  receive  my 
confession  with  an  amused  air,  and  assure 
me  that  I  was  going  throu^rh  one  of  the  or- 
(iinary  complaints  of  youth,  like  the  mea- 
sles, which  I  should  get  over  in  the  course 
of  time.  I  began  to  believe  that  Arthur 
never  had  been,  and  never  would  be,  in  love. 
1  could  talk  to  him  upon  every  other  sub- 
ject ;  but  upon  this  he  was  generally  cyni- 
cal, and  sometimes  almost  bitter. 

The  other  thincr  I  have  to  sav  has  refer- 
ence  to  Miss  Guildmore.  It  so  chanced 
that  we  had  met  very  often  during  the  last 
few  weeks  ;  and  owing  chiefly,  no  doubt,  to 
the  fact  that  I  did  not  persecute  her  with 
attentions,  we  had  become  very  good 
friends.  I  really  liked  the  girl,  and  I  be- 
lieve, in  a  way,  she  liked  me ;  but  there 
was  nothing  to  justify  the  violent  assump- 
tion of  my  uncle,  and  of  one  or  two  others, 
that  she  would  marry  me  if  I  were  so  mind- 
ed. I  received  a  letter  from  my  mother, 
however,  in  which  was  the  following  pas- 
sage :  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  go  into  good 
society ;  and,  though  I  am  aware  that 
fashionable  life  is  full  of  snares,  I  trust  you 
are  in  all  ways  turning  over  a  new  leaf,  and 
forgetting  your  boyish  follies.  Tlie  necessi- 
tv  of  making  vour  own  fortune,  since  vou 
chose  to  reject  what  your  father  left  you,  is 
fully  apparent  to  you,  I  imagine  ;  and  with- 
out wishing  you  to  make  a  mercenary  mar- 
riage (which  is  the  last  thing  any  one  would 
accuse  ?neof),  I  cannot  but  hope  that  you 
are  already  entertaining  thoughts  of  settle- 
ing  in  life  in  a  manner  which  shall  be  ad- 
vantageous to  you  in  all  ways.  I  am  given 
to  understand  that  a  young  lady  of  very 
large  means  shows  a  marked  preference  for 
your  society.     It  remains  with  you  to  choose 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


63 


•vvlietlier  von  fjravitate  towards  resppotabili- 
ty  anil  tomrort,  or  dissipation  and  poverty." 
'  My  reply  to  this  was  sharp,  short,  and  de- 
cisive. It  respL'ctability  necessitated  inar- 
ryin'j;  Miss  Guil<hnore,  I  would  be  disrepu- 
table ibr  the  remainder  of  my  days. 

1  could  vi'ry  rarely  induce  Arthur  Tuftoii 
to  "■o  into  society.  lie  occasionally  dined 
out,  but  drums  and  balls  he  steadily  de- 
clined. Concerts  were  the  only  exceptions 
he  made,  but  even  these  he  treated  very 
contemptuously. 

"  1  had  rather  go  to  a  '  Monday  Pop,'  any 
night,"  said  he,  taking  a  card  of  Mrs. 
Hawksley's,  on  which  was  inscribed  "mu- 
sic," froni  the  chimney-piece.  "  There  I 
should  hear  music  I  care  foi",  and  hear  it  in 
peace.  If  I  go  to  this  place,  I  shall  be 
jammed  in  a  doorway,  and  catch  as  much 
as  1  can  of  some  worn-out  old  opera  songs 
and  duets  that  the  same  singers  have  been 
bellowing  in  London  drawing-rooms  for  the 
last  twenty  years  ;  but  it  will  cost  a  lot  ol 
money,  and  so  one  is  bound  to  call  it  '  a 
charming  concert.'  " 

"  It  won't  cost  a  lot  of  money,  if  that  is 
your  objection,  for  it  is  amateur  ;  and  Mrs. 
riawksley  is  very  an.xious  that  you  should 
play.  I  met  her  last  night,  and  she  told  me 
she  '  adored  —  positively  adored  musical 
talent  ;  couldn't  live  without  it,  ya-as  ! ' 
And  did  I  think  you  would  be  induced  V 
Then,  as  an  inducement,  she  gave  a  string 
of  names  which  seemed  to  embrace  half  the 
peerage,  who  were  enrolled  among  the  per- 
formers. It'll  be  the  ai'istocratic-esV  thing 
in  the  way  of  music  you  ever  heard." 

He  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  That  is  not  re-assuring.  I  jirefer  my- 
'  Erratic  Harmonist,'  where  wc  grind  stead- 
ily away  at  our  symphony,  regardless  of 
■who  each  man  is,  provided  he  has  a  good 
bow-arm  ;  but  we'll  go.  Pen,  thoutrh  I  de- 
cline performing.  It  will  be  something  new 
to  me,  at  all  events." 

I  should  like  to  give  some  account  of  that 
evening,  but  it  would  occupy  too  much  val- 
uable space.  There  was  one  young  lord 
■who  made  a  lasting  impression  upon  me.  I 
never  have  had  the  advantage  of  hearing 
him  since,  but  I  have  never  forgotten  him. 
.  The  things  he  did  not  do  with  his  voice,  but 
supplemented  with  his  eyes,  eyebrows,  and 
lips,  which  he  protruded  so  that  it  seemed 
as  if  he  were  blowing  kisses  to  the  audience, 
the  histrionic  powers  he  displayed  altogeth- 
er, were  surely  remarkable.  He  was  a 
good  comic  actor  spoilt  —  if  he  had  but 
known  it.  Then  there  was  a  lady  who 
sang,  and  who  always  lost  her  time  (so 
Tulton  aflirnied,  for  I  knew  nothing  about 
it),  but  who  invariably  turned  and  cast  a 
reproachiul  look  at  the  accompanist,  when- 
ever they  were  not  together,  whereby  the 


ignorant  were  delude<l  into  the  belief  that  it 
was  A(s-  fault.  Two  songs  were  ])Ut  down  in 
the  programme  to  be  su-ig  by  Count  Ben- 
evento ;  but  he  never  appeared.  After 
this  came  the  inevitable  bass,  who  did  the 
"  buffo  "  business,  and  was  moi'e  Italian  and 
more  jocose  than  the  original  article,  as  im- 
ported direct.  But  upon  the  whole,  Tufton 
was  agreeably  surprised.  A  great  deal 
of  the  singing  was  excellent, — only  there 
was  about  twice  too  niurh  of  it ;  and  if  the 
young  ladies  would  not  have  selected  son:i;s 
which  we  were  accustomed  to  hear  exe- 
cuted by  Grisi  and  Bosio,  no  doubt  their 
sweet  voices  would  have  ijeen  heard  to  still 
more  advantage.  The  choruses  did  not 
satisfy  Tufton's  critical  ear  so  well. 

"  The  tenors  and  the  altos  are  both  fl  it, 
and  they  drag  the  time  most  horribly,"  he 
said. 

"  Bless  the  man  1  "  cried  Mrs.  Challinch, 
who  was  in  front  of  us.  "He  thinks  it's  a 
common  chorus,  that  goes  in  for  time  and 
tune,  and  ail  the  rest  of  it.  He  forgets  he 
is  listening  to  the  crime  de  la  crane." 

"  Then  the  cream  would  be  better  for 
being  whipped,"  was  Arthur's  laughing  re- 
joinder. 

]\Iadame  d'Arnhcim  was  not  there  ;  and  I 
regi'etted  it  doubly,  because  I  was  anxious 
to  introduce  Tufton,  of  whom  I  had  so  often 
spoken  to  her.  I-cannot  say  that  he  evinced 
any  desire  to  knowniy  ''diplomatic  friend,'' 
as  he  called  her,  and  positively  refused  to 
call  there,  when,  at  her  suggestion,  I  pro- 
posed to  take  him  ;  but  I  looked  upon  this 
as  belonging  to  his  general  prejudice 
against  fashionable  ladies,  which  would 
yield  at  once,  in  Madame  d'Arnheim's  case, 
if  he  only  knew  her.  As  it  happened,  they 
never  once  met  the  whple  of  that  season. 

At  the  end  of  the  evening,  as  I  was  com- 
ing down  stairs,  Mrs.  Gnildmore  asked  me 
to  call  her  carriage.  I  did  so  ;  but  appar- 
ently the  footman  did  not  answer  the  sum- 
mons, for  I  stood  beside  Miss  Guildmore  in 
the  hall  nearly  twenty  minutes,  waiting  to 
hand  her  out.  The  lady  of  the  house 
passed  us  on  her  way  to  the  supper-room, 
and  gave  me  a  gracious  smile,  which  seemed 
full  of  subtle  meaning  ;  but,  as  I  had  only 
spoken  to  her  twice  in  my  life,  I  was  a  little 
puzzled  to  know  what  it  meant.  Almost 
innnediately  after  this  Lady  Castle  came 
down  stairs  alone. 

"  Will  you  take  me  in  to  have  some  sup- 
per, Mr.  Penruddocke  ?  "  she  said,  with  her 
sweet  natural  way.  "Iain  (piite  deserted 
—  you're  the  ordy  man  li.'lt  I  know.  How 
do  you  do,  INliss  Guildmore  ?  " 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  ?  "  I  said  to  the 
young  lady. 

"  Oh  1  certainly.  Did  you  think  I  could- 
n't walk  to  the  carriage  by  myself?  " 


64 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


Lady  Castle  and  I  sat  down  at  a  small 
round  table. 

••  What  a  horrid  party !  "  she  began,  in 
a  low  voice.  "  These  sort  of  women  al- 
ways have  such  crushes,  and  so  lew  men 
one  knows." 

"  Why  didn't  Count  Benevento  sini^  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Because  he  was  in  a  very  bad  humor 
to-day,  I  suppose."  she  replied  quickly. 
"It  is  disi;racclul  throwin'^  people  over  in 
that  way.  Talk  about  the  caj)rice  of  our 
sex  !  it  is  nothini;;  to  men's  !  " 

'•  Dear  Lady  Castle  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hawks- 
ley  from  behiml  our  chairs ;  then,  witli 
some  surprise  in  her  tone  —  "Ah!  Mr. 
Penruddocke,  is  it  you  ?  Ya-as.  Dear 
me!  I  thought  you  were — ya-as.  Well, 
I  hope  you  are  taking  care  of  Lady  Castle. 
Shocking  disappointment  about  Count 
Benevento,  was  it  not?  —  ya-as.  Bad 
cold.  These  charming  delightful  tenors 
do  get  such  sudden  colds  —  ya-as.  Too 
sad,  isn't  dear  Lady  Castle  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  did  very  well  without  him, 
Mrs.  Hawksley,"  replied  Lady  Castle,  "  1 
am  sure  you  had  quite  enough  music." 

"  So  gl:id  you  thought  so  —  ya-as.  Well, 
that  is  what  the  dear  duchess  said  also  — 
it  quite  consoled  me.  Sorry,  liowever,  Mr. 
Penruddocke,  that  your  friend,  Capt. 
Tufton,  wouldn't  play — violin,  so  parlanf 
—  adore  it — ya-as.  Though  of  course  it 
is  nothing  to  the  voice.  Dear  Lady  Lou- 
isa !  loo  delightful ;  and  Lord  Algernon  ! 
so  much  pathos  in  that  bass  in  the  qiuntet, 
thought  it  miL^t  touch  Miss  Guildmore,  but 
I  saw  afterwards, —^  ya-as — that  she  was 
otherwise  —  ya-as,  ha,  ha  !  What  I  going 
already,  dear  La  ly  Castle  ?  —  I'm  sure 
V'ou'vc  had  nothing  I  " 

"  That  woman  would  have  gone  on  f  jr 
another  half-hour,  if  I  had  remained,"  said 
her  ladyship,  as  I  placed  her  cloak  on  her 
shoulders,  in  the  hall  "  and  I  had  rather  go 
to  bed  supperless.  I  do  so  dislike  her ; 
not  because  she  is  so  silly  and  vulgar,  but 
because  she  is  mischievous.  Nothing  but 
a  stern  sense  of  county  duty —  I  knew  Cas- 
tle would  wish  it  —  brought  me  here. 
H  ive  you  any  thing  to  do  to-morrow  ? 
Wii^l  you  drive  down  with  me  to  the  Han- 
del Festival  ?  I  have  a  spai-e  ticket  now, 
and  can  give  you  a  seat  in  my  carriage." 

I  assented,  and  a  very  pleasant  day  I 
had.  Benevento  was  not  of  the  party, 
which  reaiained,  after  the  oratorio  was 
over,  to  dinner ;  and  though  Lady  Castle 
was  not  in  good  spirits  —  she  cried  diu'ing 
a  great  part  of  the  "  Messiah  "  —  I  thought 
her  very  attractive;  so  soft  and  womanlv. 
Here  is  a  little  anecdote  I  find  noted  down 
in  my  journal  for  that  day.  I  produce  it, 
because  it  is  characteristic  :  — 


My  attention  was  attracted,  soon  after 
the  performance  began,  by  a  handsome 
but  very  sad-looking  woman,  accompanied 
by  a  man,  who  were  seated  directly  before 
us.  The  lady  turned  her  head  once,  and 
once  only  ;  for  whatever  cause  she  seemed 
to  avoid  looking  again  in  our  direction. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  is  in  front?" 
I  whispered  to  Lady  Castle. 

"  Ahxs  !  indeed  I  do,"  she  sighed.  "  She 
was  a  great  friend  of  mine  once.  Poor 
Helen  Gray  !  Untbrtunately  she  cut  her- 
self off  from  us  all  by  running  away.  Don't 
vou  remember  the  divorce  three  years 
ago?" 

I  had  never  heard  of  it ;  and  she  went 
on  :  — 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  her.  I  often  think  I 
will  go  and  see  her,  poor  thing !  but  in 
London  it  is  so  difficult  to  do  what  one 
wishes." 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  to  her  now, 
then  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  unfortunately  it  would  never  do 
—  in  public  —  to  be  seen  with  her.  The 
world  is  so  censorious.  But  I  really  do 
mean  to  go  and  see  her,  poor  dear,  some 
day.  Listen !  Sims  Reeves  is  going  to 
sing  'Comfort  ye.'  How  I  wish  I  could 
hear  such  music  as  this  forever !  It  makes 
one  feel  how  hollow  the  world  is,  doesn't 
it?" 

I  was  puzzled.  Was  what  this  world 
said  true  of  Lady  Castle  ?  If  so,  was  she 
not  a  thousand-fold  worse  than  the  woman 
belbre  us  ?  "  Yet  the  one  whom  th  vt 
same  world  delighted  to  honor  was  of 
purer  eyes  than  to  behold  t'n  public  the  in- 
iquity of  the  other  who  had  once  openly 
erreil. 

My  education  was  advancing  daily;  and 
yet  I  had  a  great  deal  to  learn.  I  decided 
that  all  that  I  heard  to  the  prejudice  of 
my  fair  companion  must  be  untrue.  She 
was  weak,  impressionable,  carried  away  by 
any  excitement  of  the  moment,  whether 
religious  or  otherwise.  She  could  not  be 
culpable. 


CHAPTER    XXH. 

"I  HAVE  not  seen  you  for  four  days," 
said  Madame  d'Arnheim,  one  afternoon  a 
fortnight  after  this,  when  I  entered  her 
drawinz-room.  "  What  have  you  been 
about  ? "  and  she  lo:)ked  into  ray  face, 
with  that  scrutiny  which  is  the  prerogative 
of  a  woman's  friendship.  No  Orestes  ever 
brings  Pylades  thus  to  task. 

'•  I  wa?  on  guard  all  yesterday." 

"  And  the  day  before  ?  " 

"  At  Richmond." 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


65 


"  Who  with  ?    Perhaps  I  am  indiscreet." 
"Laily  Castle,   Lady    Aneaslar,   and    a 
large  party." 

"  And  the  night  before,  I  heard  you  were 
in  Lady  Castle's  box  at  Covent  Garden. 
I  am  id'raid  you  are  getting  into  that  set,  in 
spite  of  my  warnings." 

"  My  dear  Madame  d'Arnhcim,  don't 
look  so  severe.  Lady  Castle  has  been  aw- 
fully kind  to  me,  and  I  can't  help  likinii 
her.  I  know  you  don't,  which  I'm  sorry  for 
but"  — 

"  Oh  !  my  likings  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  W  you  only  went  to  people  I  like,  you 
would  see  very  thw.  But  I  forgot  —  you  are 
a  man  ;  you  have  no  discernment  where  a 
woman  is  concerned.  No  matter  what  she 
realiy  is,  if  you  are  '  taken  '  with  her,  it  is 
all  up  with  you." 

"  I3ut  how  is  one  to  know  what  she  real- 
ly is  V  " 

"  If  you  frequent  Lady  Castle's,  you  must 
see  enough  to  draw  your  own  conclusions, 
unless  you  are  blind." 

"  Upon  my  lite,  I  don't  know  what  to  be- 
lieve. I  dare  say  half  the  women  who  are 
never  talked  about  are  much  worse." 

"  Pray,  has  that  Italian  become  a  friend 
of  yours  too  ?  " 

"  No  :  I  hate  the  brute.  Lady  Castle  is 
very  foolish  about  him,  I  grant;  and  the 
way  she  goes  on  about  his  singing  makes 
him  very  cheeky.  I  fancy  they  are  con- 
stantly quarrelling  —  at  least  I  have  heard 
him  very  impudent  to  her  more  than  once  ; 
but  she  is  too  soft  and  forgiving  ;  that's 
the  worst  of  it.  She  is  a  generous-hearted, 
imprudent  woman,  I  think." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said  slowly  ;  then  after  a 
pause,  "  Are  you  aware  that  he  is  by  no 
means  the  first  person  to  whom  she  has 
been  so  '  generous  '  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  scandal 
talked  about  her,  but  I  didn't  believe  it. 
And  one  good  quality  she  certainly  has, 
which  is  rai'e.  bhe  never  speaks  ill  of  any 
one." 

"  And  I  do  speak  ill  ?  I  understand." 
"  Nonsense  !  I  was  not  thinking  of  you. 
I  know  it  is  your  kind  interest  in  me  makes 
you  speak.  Besides,  I  have  not  forgotten 
that  the  first  time  I  saw  her  you  refused  to 
discuss  Lady  Castle." 

"  Thank  vou  tor  remembering  that.  No  : 
1  am  not  given  to  scandal ;  but  never  to 
speak  ill  may  be  pushed  too  far.  To  make 
no  distinctions  bcitween  good  and  evil  is 
diplomatic  in  society,  no  doubt ;  but  re- 
member, in  citing  it  as  a  proof  of  Christian 
charity,  that  the  Founder  of  our  religion  did 
not  hesitate  to  call  men  sinful  who  were  so." 
"  Didn't  he  say,  however,  '  Let  him  that 
is  without  sin  among  you  first  cast  a  stone 
at  her  '  ?  " 


"  He  did  not  deny  her  sin.  He  did  not 
even  extenuate  it.  He  Ixide  her  go  and  sin 
no  more.  'Ilie  people  who  are  called  in  the 
world  '  good-natured,'  on  the  contrary  seem 
to  say,  '  Go  on  sinning,  if  you  like.  It  is 
no  business  of  ours  —  until  you  are  actually 
caught.  You  are  very  pleasant ;  and  wheth- 
er you  are  good  or  wicked,  is  of  no 
consequence  to  us.'  Ach  !  That  sort  of 
sentiment  seems  to  me  a  very  different 
thing  from  divine  charity." 

"  There  is  such  a  lot  of  humbug  in  the 
world,"  said  I,  thinking  of  the  jjious  lessons 
that  had  been  inculcated  in  my  childhood, 
"  that  it  is  hard,  if  not  impossible,  to  tell 
what  is  real ;  but,  at  least,  the  humbug  of 
good-nature  is  more  graceful  than  the  act 
of  stoning  one's  neighbors,  which  people 
indulge  so  freely  in." 

"  You  are  very  young,"  said  she,  after  a 
pause.  "  Take  my  advice,  and  avoid  this 
society  :  it  will  do  you  no  good.  It  will 
take  the  edge  off  your  appetite  for  better 
things.     If  your  little  Evelyn  "  — 

"  My   dear   Madame   d'Arnheim,   don't 
name  her,  for  Heaven's  sake,  in  the  same 
breath  !    Evelyn  belongs  to  another  world, 
of  course,   altogether.     I   should    be  very 
sorry  for  her  to  be  in  this  society,  but  what 
harm  do  you  suppose  it  can  do  me  ?     I  am 
not  going  to  fall  in  love  with  any  one  of  these 
women.     I  am  happily  heart-proof.     And 
you  don't  suppose  I  am  so  innocent  as  to  be 
hurt  by  Mrs.  Chaffinch's  pleasantries,  or  by 
—  by  any  thing  I  may  see  or  hear,  do  you  ?  " 
Madame    d'Arnheim   sighed,   and    said 
nothing.     Perhaps   she   sorrowfully  recog- 
nized   that    the   few   months   which    had 
elapsed  since  I  arrived  in  London,  a  raw 
youth,  had  already  wrought  a  change  in  me. 
I  was  becoming  more  a  man  of  the  world. 
And  the  fact,  which  I  have  chosen  to  illus- 
trate in  the  foregoing  conversation,  rather 
than  narrate  it  at  length,  is  that  the  world 
took  very  kindly  to  me,  and  I  took  not  un- 
kindly to  the  world.     Six  months  before, 
I  should  have  believed  it  impossible  that  I 
could  have  been  swept  into  the  vortex  of 
London  society.     It  was  contrary  to  all  my 
boyish  tastes  and  habits ;  and  I  possessed 
a  strong   counter-attraction  to   guard    ine 
from  the  seductions  of  its  sii-ens.     But  I  had 
youth  and  high  spirits  ;  and  there  was  the 
unexpected   novelty   of  finding    myself  — 
after  being  treated  all  my  life  as  of  such 
small  account — suddenly  transformed  into 
a    popular   young  man  of  fashion.     Why 
people  found  me  amusing,  I  can't  think  ;  for 
I  certainly  never  set  up  for  a  wit.     I  can 
only  suppose  it  was  fi-om  my  habit  of  saying 
])retty  much  what   came  uppermost ;  and, 
in  this  hit-or-miss  way,  even  duller  fellows 
than  myself  occasionally  strike  out  a  good 
thing.     But  I  found  that  it  was  accepted 


66 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


as  incontrovertible  tliiit  "  Mr.  Penruddooke 
does  say  such  droll  thinjis  in  liis  na'ifyvny  ;  " 
and,  in  certain  Iiouses,  wliatever  I  advanced 
■was  received  witli  a  <:i'j:slt^.  wliieli  is  one 
of  the  most  distressing  phases  of  social  suc- 
cess I  know,  involving,  as  it  does,  a  perpet- 
ual strain  to  meet  the  demand.  I  was 
asked  to  more  dinners  that  season  than  any 
three  men  could  have  eaten ;  and  as  to 
other  invitations,  my  table  every  morning 
■was  covered  with  cards,  many  of  them  from 
people  whom  I  had  never  even  heard  of.  I 
lelt  this  to  be  the  more  personally  flattering, 
inasmuch  as  I  was  not  a  parti,  but  belonged 
to  the  phalanx  of  ineligibles ; "  and  even 
Mrs.  Hawksley  was  beginning  to  recognize 
that  I  had  no  ulterior  views  upon  Miss 
Guildmore's  money,  or  the  heart  of  any 
poorer  damsel.  I  was  clearly  not  to  be 
marked  "  dangerous  "  by  mammas. 

When  Lady  Castle  and  a  few  line  ladies, 
therefore,  "  took  me  ujj,"  as  it  is  called,  the 
world  decided  that  I  was  a  very  charming 
young  man,  who  only  made  himself  agree- 
able to  married  women. 

My  bitterest  enemy  would  hardly  have 
erased  my  name  from  her  list  after  that,  I 
believe.  The  only  enemy  I  had,  however, 
belonged  to  my  own  sex  ;  but  of  him  I  will 
speak  presently.  I  have  said  enough  to 
explain  how  it  came  to  pass  that  this  change 
was  wrought  in  me,  who  had  hitherto  been 
much  more  at  home  in  the  field  than  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  whose  amljition  and 
tastes  would  certainly  have  prevented  my 
continuing  this  life  very  long ;  but,  while 
it  lasted,  I  went  in  for  it  with  all  the  fresh- 
ness of  twenty  years  and  an  unimpaired 
digestion,  eating  the  unwholesome  plums 
and  apples  as  I  walked  along,  knowing  that 
it  would  not  last  forever, — that  beyond 
that  garden  lay  the  long  upland  reach,  with 
fame  and  honor  on  the  heights,  if  I  could 
but  reach  them,  and  the  temple  of  pure 
love  cro'.vning  all. 

In  the  whirl  of  dissipation,  however,  I 
never  forgot  Madame  d'Arnheim  ;  and,  in 
her  peaceful  green  drawing-room,  when  I 
turned  out  of  the  dusty,  crowded  streets,  I 
always  Ibund  repose  to  the  eyes  and  to  the 
spirit.  Sometimes  —  as  on  the  occasion  I 
have  above  described  —  days  elapsed  with- 
out mv  being  able  to  see  her  ;  but  she  was 
always  the  same.  A  iriendly  little  I'epi'oach, 
which,  as  showing  that  I  had  been  missed, 
I  greatly  preferred  to  unconcern ;  a  close, 
almost  maternal  inquiry  as  to  what  I  had 
been  about;  a  resolute  reserve  touching 
herself;  the  discussion  of  books,  or  of  ab- 
stract questions,  with  all  the  Schwdnnerei 
belonging  to  the  nation,  —  these  were  the 
characteristics  of  her  intercourse  with  me. 
I  may  trulv  sav  I  never  (rathered  au'dit  but 
good   from   her.     I  might  dilFer  from  her 


views,  but  they  were  always  noble ;  and 
even  when  unpractical,  or,  as  her  husband 
and  the  world  called  them,  "  sentimental," 
as  refreshing,  in  contrast  to  the  language  I 
heard  daily  around  me,  as  the  draught  irom 
a  running  stream  after  imbibing  the  turbid 
water  of  a  pond. 

My  one  enemy,  to  whom  I  have  referred, 
was  Benevento.  1  had,  irom  the  first,  avoid- 
ed him ;  and  he  was  much  too  acute  not  to 
see  it.  I  never  gambled  ;  I  was  Tufton's 
friend;  I  had  now  established  a  certain 
footing  in  Lady  Castle's  house.  He  spared 
no  pains  to  win  me  over,  but  I  rej)ulsed  all 
his  attempts  at  familiarity ;  for  the  one 
point  on  which  his  astuteness  i'ailed  to  sup- 
ply the  want  of  good-breeding  was  a  belief 
that  intimacy  could  be  stormed  by  a  coup-de- 
main,  instead  of  being  stealthily  crept  into 
by  a  breach  in  the  walls  of  acquaintance- 
ship. 

At  last  he  began  to  see  that  it  was  use- 
less. Instead  of  coming  up,  and  ibrcing 
his  hand  upon  me  when  we  met,?,  scarcely 
perceptible  nod  passed  between  us.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  forgive  my  marked  avoid- 
ance ;  and  I  heard  (one  always  does  hear 
in  such  cases !)  that  he  said  I  had  the 
manners  of  the  caserne,  where,  he  under- 
stood, I  had  lived  as  a  common  soldier. 
Our  hostility  remained  in  a  jjassive  condi- 
tion, however,  until  another  motive,  more 
powei'ful  than  my  impudence,  was  added 
to  intensify  the  bitterness  of  his  resent- 
ment. I  might  seriously  interfere  with  his 
views  ;  in  which  case,  woe  betide  me  ! 

The  pretty  little  theatre  in  Tottenham 
Court  Road  was  iust  comin^  into  vo^ue  at 
this  time  ;  and  a  few  days  after  the  con- 
versation recorded  in  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter,  Lady  Ancastar  made  a  party  to 
the  stalls,  inviting  us  to  supper  at  her 
house  alter  the  play  was  over.  I  sat  next 
to  Lady  Castle  at  the  theatre,  Benevento 
being  on  the  other  side  of  her.  Through- 
out the  early  part  of  the  evening,  I  was 
conscious  that  a  discussion,  more  animated 
than  pleasant,  was  renewed  several  times 
between  these  two.  They  spoke  in  Italian, 
with  which  language  the  la<ly  was  as  fa- 
miliar as  with  her  own  ;  and  Benevento's 
vehemence  was  so  great,  that,  though  I 
could  not  understand  a  word  he  said,  I 
telt  sure  he  was  urging  something  which 
annoyed  and  distressed  Lady  Castle  ex- 
tremely. It  was  impossible  to  mistake 
that  she  begged  him  more  than  once  to 
be  quiet.  Then  she  became  angry  —  at 
least  so  I  guessed,  and  turned  herself  to 
me,  replying  to  him  only  by  monosyllables 
durinc;  the  rest  of  the  evening.  She  asked 
me  to  give  her  my  arm  as  we  came  out ; 
and,  when  her  bi'ougham  drove  up,  offered 
me  a  seat  to  Lady  Ancastar's.     Benevento 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


67 


looked  liviil ;  he  gnawed  his  mustache  ; 
but  the  next  moment  turned  with  a  suiih^ 
to  receive  some  witticism  of  Mrs.  Chaf- 
finch's. That  acute  Uidy  was  not  to  be 
taken  in,  however.  She  whispered  to  me 
as  I  passed  her,  — 

"  I  hope  you'll  disagree  with  him,  if  he 
eats  you,  —  as  he  certainly  will." 

Lady  Castle  looked  sparkling  and  ani- 
mated as  we  drove  along,  with  the  lamp- 
lights flashing  in  her  face. 

"  What  horrible  creatures  foreigners  are  ! 
ain't  they  ?  " 

I  replied,  with  a  little  hesitation,  that  I 
hated  some  of  them. 

"  One  does  very  wrong  ever  to  have  any 
thing  to  say  to  them,  I  believe." 

"  All !  perhaps  so." 

She  began  pulling  ofT  her  gloves.  Her 
hands  were  lovely. 

'•  Don't  be  afraid  :  it  is  going  no  fur- 
ther," she  said,  laughing.  Then  she  pro- 
duced a  new  pair  of  gloves,  and  a  bottle  of 
eau  de  Portxigal,  which  she  poured  on  her 
handkerchief. 

"  How  close  that  theatre  was  !  I  felt 
sutfocated.  What  a  bore  it  is  going  to 
Lady  Ancastar's  !  I  had  much  rather  be 
going  home,  hadn't  you  V  " 

"  Well,  to  say  the  truth,  I  feel  rather 
hungry." 

At  this  moment  —  we  were  driving 
through  the  very  worst  part  of  St.  Giles's, 
and  had  reached  an  intersection  of  narrow 
streets  —  I  heard  a  shout  from  both  ser- 
vants on  the  box,  and  then  —  crash,  a  cart, 
furiously  driven,  ran  into  us,  smashing  the 
panel  and  glass  upon  my  side,  and  fright- 
ening one  of  our  horses  so  that  he  kicked 
liis  leg  over  the  trace.  Lady  Castle 
screamed  and  clutched  my  arm  so  tight 
that  I  had  some  difficulty  in  jumping  out, 
which  I  did  at  last,  with  the  blood  pouring 
down  my  face.  The  inhabitants  were  turn- 
ing out  of  dark  doorways  on  every  side  ; 
the  gin-palace  at  the  corner  emptied  itself; 
in  two  minutes  there  must  have  been  near- 
ly a  Imndred  people  round  us.  Tlie  ser- 
vants were  both  oft"  the  box,  trying  to 
calm  and  to  extricate  the  excited  horse, 
who  threatened  every  moment  to  break 
his  leg.  I  turned  to  the  druidcen  brute 
who  had  craused  this  mischief^  and  who, 
far  from  being  sobered  by  the  event,  on 
finding  that  his  own  horse  had  sustained 
some  damage,  was  now  adding  insult  to 
injury  by  his  language,  as  he  roared  out  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs,  — 


D your eyes  ?    What  the  hell 

are  you  d — d  swells  doing  here,  a-drivin' 
like  this,  eh  V     What  do    I  care  for  your 

b carriage  V       It    was    your    Jarvie's 

fault  —  a-drivin'  like  that  in  Seven  Dials." 
1  asked  one  of  the  crowd  whether  there  was 


no   policeman    at   hand.      The  man  went 
on,  — 

"  Oh  !  you  want  a  bobby,  do  you  ?  I'd 
like  to  see  'im  lay  a  finger  on  me.  Come 
on,  if  you're    a   man,  and    have  a  round. 

D ve :    d'ye    think    I'm  afraid    o'    the 

likes  o'''you?" 

My  blood  was  up;  and  regardless  of  the 
consequences,  which  might  have  been  very 
awkward  for  Lady  Castle,  I  gave  him  one 
from  the  shoulder,  straight  between  the 
eyes,  which  sent  him  spinning  to  the 
ground.  There  was  an  applauding  laugh 
from  the  crowd. 

'•  (lo  it,  swell !     Give  'im  another  !  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Mr.  Penruddocke, 
leave  the  man  alone  !"  cried  Lady  Castle. 

But  partly  owing  to  the  effects  of  liquor, 
no  doubt,  the  fellow  could  hardly  pick  him- 
self up  :  he  kept  cursing  in  thickened  utter- 
ance, and  by  the  time  he  staggered  to  his 
feet  two  policemen  appeared,  to  whose 
charge  I  relegateil  him  for  furious  driving. 

And  what  was  now  to  be  done  with  Lady 
Castle  ?  To  remain  in  her  brougham,  sub- 
ject to  all  the  witticisms  of  the  crowd, 
which  was  increasing  every  moment,  drawn 
hither  by  the  fun  of  seeing  "  a  swell  upset," 
and  who  were  not  sparing  in  their  remarks, 
or  choice  in  their  language,  would  be  most 
disagreeable  for  her;  but  if  we  waited  for 
a  cab  to  be  brought,  this  was  wdiat  she 
must  do ;  and  there  was  no  possibility  of 
moving  the  brougham  in  the  present  con- 
dition of  affairs.  The  horse  had  been  ex- 
tricated, but  not  until  he  had  smashed  the 
pole  ;  and  there  the  poor  animal  stood  in 
a  cold  sweat,  trembling  all  over,  and  shrink- 
ing even  from  the  coaxing  pat  of  his  own 
well-known  groom. 

"  I  had  rather  get  out  and  walk  to  the 
nearest  cab-stand,"  whispered  Lady  Castle 
over  the  door  to  me.  "  Any  thing  is  bet- 
ter than  sitting  here  surrounded  by  these 
horrible  people.  The  servants  must,  of 
course,  remain  with  the  carriage.  Please 
let  me  out  —  I  can't  stay  here,  I  can't, 
indeed." 

The  coachman,  to  whom  I  applied,  said 
he  must  send  for  ropes  before  he  could 
move  the  carriage  ;  that  it  would  take  some 
time,  and,  even  then,  his  progress  must  be 
very  slow.  There  seemed  nothing  lor  it, 
therefore,  but  to  accede  to  Lady  Castle's' 
wish.  I  begged  one  of  the  policemen  to  try 
to  clear  a  passagt;,  and,  desii'ing  her  to  wrap 
her  biu-nous  as  tight  round  her  throat  as 
possible,  —  for  I  really  was  afraid  of  some 
of  the  roughs  making  a  grab  at  her  diamond 
locket,  —  I  opened  the  carriage-door,  and 
dragged  her  out,  somehow  or  other,  through 
the  fold  mob,  which  closed  aroiunl  us. 
The  arm  which  held  mine  trembled  through 
her  cloak,  but  she  said  nothing,  till  we  had 


68 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


left  the  frlnixe  of  the  crowLl.  and  were  scud- 
diiiLj  along  the  dark  and  dirty  streets,  un- 
molested. 

"  At  last,  thank  Heaven  1  I  was  really 
more  frightened  of  those  horrible  people 
than  at  the  aecident  ;  ])Ut  what  a  dreadful- 
looking  street  1     Where  are  we  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  any  idea.  I  only  know  we 
are  p-oing  back  in  the  direction  of  Oxford 
Street." 

''  AVhat  a  position  !  I  only  hope  yon  are 
going  right.  Just  think  if  any  one  —  if  Mrs. 
Chaillnch,  for  instance  —  saw  me  !  " 

'■  Well,  it  would  be  a  good  thing.  She 
would  give  you  a  lift,  of  course." 

"  Ah  I  you  would  be  glad  to  be  rid  of 
the  encumbrance.  I  meant  that  people 
who  are  ill-natured"  — 

'■  Who  could  be  ill-natured  when  your 
carriage  is  smashed,  and  you  have  narrow- 
ly escaped  with  your  life  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  !  I  would  not  be 
in  this  position  with  any  one  in  whom  I 
had  not  confidence,  for  the  world.  You're 
sure  you  know  where  you  are  going?  " 

"  Not  at  all ;  but  it  is  a  fine  night,  and 
if  you  are  not  afraid  of  catching  cold,  you 
need  fear  nothing  else.  AVe  shall  all  be 
right  in  a  few  minutes,  depend  upon  it." 

"  I  can't  go  on  to  Lady  Ancastar's  —  it's 
perfecily  impossible.  My  nerves  are  so 
dreadfully  shaken,  I  must  go  straight 
home.  And  you  —  good  Heavens!  I  am 
afraid  your  face  is  badly  cut  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  it  is  nothing ;  a  little  sticking- 
plaster  will  set  it  all  right.  My  shirt  has 
rather  suffered,  that  is  all." 

"  How  you  frightened  me  when  you 
knocked  that  dreadful  man  down  !  " 

'•  Yes,  it  was  very  wrong  :  I  ought  to 
have  had  more  self-control,  considering  you 
were  by." 

"  And  think,  what  should  I  have  done, 
if,  in  return,  he  had  knocked  you 
down  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  shouldn't  have  been  afraid  of  that, 
even  if  he  had  been  sober,"  said  I  conceit- 
edly. "  I  saw  he  was  only  a  flabby  brute, 
though  twice  my  weight.  I  hope  the  ma- 
gistrate will  give  him  enough  to  make  him 
remember  his  drive  to-night.  I  shall  have 
to  go  to  the  police  court  to-morrow,  and  — 
halloo  !  well  steered  !  Here  we  are  in  Ox- 
ford Street ;  and  now,  fur  a  '  crawler.'  " 

I  shouted,  and  one  in  the  distance 
quickened  his  pace  towards  us.  As  he 
drew  up  to  the  pavement,  close  to  a  lamji- 
post,  and  I  opened  the  door  to  hand  in 
Lady  Castle,  a  hansom  passed  ;  not  so  rap- 
idly, however,  but  that  I  saw  two  heads  — 
well-known  to  me  as  containing  two  of  the 
most  unscrupulous  tongues  in  London, 
—  craned  out  at  the  very  moment  that  the 
lamjj-light  fell  full  upon  Lady  Castle's  face. 


It  was  an  unlucky  coincidence,  but  T  knew 
there  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  If 
Lady  Castle  went  home,  and  if  I  did  not 
show  my  cut  face  and  soiled  shirt  at  Lady 
Ancastar's,  scandal  would  be  busy  with 
our  names  to-ni(jrrow  morning.  Now,  as  it 
will  be  tolerably  apparent,  from  what  has 
passed,  that  I  did  not  in  the  least  aspire  to 
trans])lant  Benevento  in  her  ladyship's 
good  graces,  I  had  no  fancy  to  have  the 
spurious  honor  of  so  doing  thrust  upon  me. 
1  told  the  cabman  to  drive  to  Grosvenor 
Place,  and  stop,  on  the  way,  at  the  first 
chemist's  where  he  saw  a  light. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice.  Lady  Castle, 
you  will  go  to  Lady  Ancastar's,  if  it  be  but 
tor  five  minutes,"  I  said,  as  F  took  my  seat 
beside  her.  To  mv  great  distress  she  burst 
into  tears. 

"I  —  I  really  feel  too  ill.  I  have  had  a 
great  deal  to  upset  me  to-night,  before  — 
before  this  accident.  If  you  only  knew  — 
but  it  is  of  no  use  talking  of  it,  though  I 
am  sure  you  are  to  be  trusted." 

I  remained  silent,  not  being  desirous  to 
be  made  her  confidant ;  and  she  continued, 
after  gulping  down  her  hysterical  sobs,  — 

'•Still,  if y  —  y  —  you  think  I  ought  — 
if  y  —  you  wish  it,  I  will  try  to  make  the 
efTort.  I  —  I  —  I  feel,  dear  Mr.  Penrud- 
docke,  I  owe  xoxx  so  much ;  and  I  am  sure 
you  arc  so  good  and  high-principled." 

The  enumeration  of  my  virtues  was  for- 
tunately cut  short  by  our  drawing  up  at  the 
chemist's,  where  I  got  my  wound  plastered 
up,  and  brought  Lady  Castle  some  sal- vol- 
atile to  the  cab-door. 

"  If  I  had  not  such  confidence  in  you," 
she  murmured,  as  she  took  the  slass  from 
my  hand,  and  fixed  her  swimming  blue 
e\es  upon  mine  ;  "  if  I  had  not  such  confi- 
dence in  you,  I  should  be  afraid  to  take 
this" 

When  we  entered  Lady  Ancastar's  sup- 
per-room, I  saw  a  suppressed  smile  on  the 
faces  of  all  the  party,  save  Beneveyto's, 
who  turned  his  head  awny,  and  the  indom- 
itable Chaffinch  actually  pulled  out  her 
watch,  crying  uut.  — 

"  One  hour  and  five  minutes,  my  dear, 
^ince  you  left  the  theatre  I  I  hope  you've 
had  a  j)leasant  drive  ?  But,  good  gracious  ! 
how  pale  you  are  !  and  Mr.  Penruddocke's 
face  1     What  does  it  all  mean  V  " 

Tlien  followed  explanations  and  ques- 
tions, and  lamentations  and  commiserations, 
in  which,  I  am  bound  to  say,  every  one 
showed  a  kindly  feeling  except  the  Italian, 
who  remained  absolutely  silent,  until,  lean- 
ing across  the  table,  and  addressing  me,  he 
said,  with  marked  emphasis,  — 

'•  You  gave  the  man  in  charge  ?  At 
what  police-court  do  you  attend  to  prose- 
cute him  to-morrow  ?  " 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


69 


I  saw  his  drift  :  he  disbelieved  the  whole 
story. 

"  At  Bow  Street,  at  eleven  o'clock,  where 
I  shall  Ih'  happy  to  meet  you,  if  you  like  to 
hear  further  particulars." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  case  was  summarily  treated  the 
next  morning,  and  very  briefly  reported  in 
the  papers.  I  hoped,  therefore,  that  any 
gossip  concerning  this  unfortunate  circum- 
stance would  soon  die  away ;  but  in  this  I 
was  mistaken. 

My  uncle  was  the  first  to  undeceive  me. 
I  met  hini  in  St.  James's  Street. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  laughing,  "  I 
hear  of  nothing  but  your  adventure.  What 
will  your  mother  say  about  your  bonne 
fortune,  eh  ?  They  say  you've  comi)letely 
cut  that  Italian  fellow  out." 

'•  I  hope  you  don't  believe  it,"  said  I, 
cnlorin"-.  "  There  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in 
it." 

'•  Oh  !  of  course  not  —  of  course  you  say 
that,  vou  youn^  Don  Juan.  Well !  we 
Lave  all  sown  our  wild  oats,  —  only  1  m 
afraid  this  puts  all  Miss  Guildaiore's  chances 
at  an  end  ;  and  your  mother  won't  be  as 
pleased  to  hear  of  your  celebrity  in  this 
new  line  as  at  the  prospect  of  your  marry- 
ing the  heiress." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  reiterated  mj'  as- 
sijrance  :  I  saw  that  it  made  but  small  im- 
pression. 

The  next  day  I  called  upon  Madame 
d'Arnheim.     She  received  me  very  coldly. 

"  Have  vou  nothing  to  ask  about  mv  ac- 
cident  ?  "  I  began.  "  Don't  you  see  my 
wounds  ?  " 

"  I  see  some  plaster.  No  :  I  am  not  curi- 
ous to  know  any  thing  about  it." 

"  That's  unkind.  Did  you  hear  of  my 
knocking  down  a  drunken  drayman  ?  I 
was  the  hero  of  '  Seven  Dials  '  for  about 
two  minutes  and  a  half." 

She  did  not  look  up  from  her  knitting. 
Her  fingers  plied  rapidly. 

"  I  heard  (|uite  enough  —  more  than  I 
wished !  " 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  you  have  heard  some  lies.  Let 
me  "  — 

"  There  are  things  it  is  useless  to  talk 
about.  As  a  man  of  honor,  you  are  bound 
not  to  tell  me  the  truth  ;  and  I  have  cer- 
tainly no  right  to  ask  it.  Let  us  change 
the  subject.  I  am  sorry,  and  I  am  disap- 
pointed in  you  :  that  is  all." 

"  But,  it  is  not  ail.  Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  let  you   believe  any  lies  people 


choose  to  say  ?     You  must  hear  me,  Madame 
d'Arnheim." 

"  I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  said  she,  with 
a  sigh.  "  I  warned  you.  You  are  young 
and  very  silly ;  and  Lady  Castle  is  the 
most  dangerous  woman  in  London." 

"  Nonsense  !  She  is  not  dangerous  to 
me,  at  all  events.  A  most  unluckv  series 
of  accidents  the  other  night  led  to  our 
being  seen  alone  together ;  but,  after  all, 
what  happened  might  have  happened  to  any 
one  —  to  you,  for  instance.  Do  believe  me, 
won't  you  ?  " 

She  had  been  looking  at  me  steadily  in 
the  face.  Her  cheek  flushed  as  I  finished  ; 
and  then  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  much  pain  this 
has  (riven  me.  I  had  refjarded  you  as 
a  King  Arthur  among  men,  who,  loving 
early,  kept  his  heart  pure  and  true  to  that 
first  love.  It  grieved  me  to  unthrone  you; 
but  how  could  I  doubt  what  I  hoard  ? 
My  husband  met  two  men  at  the  St.  James's 
Club,  who  swore  that  they  had  seen  you  — 
under  circumstances  which  —  but  we  will 
say  no  more  about  it.  I  believe  you  :  if 
I  did  not,  all  my  pleasure  in  your  society 
henceforward  would  be  gone." 

I  made  her  listen  to  my  story,  never- 
theless ;  and  then,  from  that  day  forwards, 
we  neither  of  us  ever  alluded  to  it.  Lady 
Castle's  name  was  rarely  mentioned  be- 
tween us.  Madame  d'Arnheim  no  longer 
questioned  or  counselled  me.  She  knew 
that  I  was  constantly  invited  to  Belgrave 
Square  ;  but  I  suppose  she  heard  what  was 
the  fact,  that  Benevento's  quarrel  with 
Lady  Castle  had  apparently  been  com- 
pletely made  up.  He  was  as  much  in  the 
house  as  ever.  And  I,  for  my  part,  excused 
myself  as  often  as  possible  from  accepting 
Lady  Castle's  pressing  invitations.  She 
always  called  me  'her  preserver,'  and- re- 
proached me  with  not  calling  oftener  ;  but 
I  could  no  longer  remain  blind  to  the  state 
of  things.  She  was  completely  and  fiitally 
under  the  influence  of  the  Italian.  His 
extreme  cleverness  dominated,  as  his  per- 
sonal charms  had  originally  fascinated  her. 
She  was  as  helpless  in  his  hand  as  a  silly' 
bird  who  tries  to  escape  from  his  cage,  and 
who,  fluttering  round  the  room,  is  soon  re- 
captured by  its  jailer.  A  weak  woman, 
who  required  to  cling  to  something;  if'  it 
were  not  this  man,  then  it  would  be  another, 
from  sheer  inability  to  walk  without  some 
support,  whether  lawful  or  otherwise. 
With  another  sort  of  husband,  she  would 
have  been  another  woman  ;  but  Lord  Castle 
liad  no  idea  of  what  love  meant.  Ih;  was 
a  studious,  honorable,  kind-hearted  man, 
whose  frame  was  of  the  consistency  oi"  un- 
U-avened  bread,  and  whose  mind  was  too 
abstracted  to  see  any  thing  that  went  on 


70 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


around  liim.  He  was  content  that  lii<  wife 
should  remain  away  ti'uni  him  lor  nearly 
half  the  year,  and  no  thought  of  evil  ever 
entered  liis  imagination.  lll-echieated, 
childless,  surrounded  from  her  girlhood  by 
admiration  and  bad  examples,  could  the 
result  in  her  case  be  dili'erent  V  The  ex- 
cuses to  be  pleaded  for  such  as  love,  not 
wisely,  but  too  well,  were  of  no  avail  in 
])oor  Lady  Castle's  case;  but  are  tempera- 
nunt,  training,  circumstances,  not  to  be 
taken  into  account  when  judging  such  as 
she  V  I  know  I  heartily  pitied  her.  But, 
tor  all  that,  I  abstained  irom  going  often 
to  her  house  ;  not  because  of  the  Italian's 
jealousy,  but  because  the  world,  having  once 
coupled"  my  name  with  Lady  Castle's,  could 
not  be  induced  to  leave  us  alone.  I  was 
constantly  annoyed  by  some  chaffing  al- 
lusion to  "  Castle  Dangerous,"  as  it  pleased 
the  wits  to  call  her.  Therefore,  towards 
the  end  of  that  season,  I  saw,  comparatively, 
but  little  of  her. 

I  have  now  to  speak  of  Arthur  Tufton, 
in  whom  a  creat  change  had  been  gradually 
working  for  some  weeks.  His  fits  of  depres- 
sion were  more  and  more  frequent,  until 
the  gloom  became  so  permanent  and  pro- 
found that  I  could  scarcely  extract  a  word 
from  him.  He  was  not  like  the  same  man 
1  had  remembered  eighteen  months  befi^re. 
It  grieved  me  ;  for  I  was  sincerely  attached 
to  him,  and  I  guessed  but  too  well  what 
the  cause  must  be.  I  resolved  to  force 
some  coniession  of  the  state  of  his  affairs 
from  hiui,  if  possible;  for  I  knew,  judg- 
ing by  my  own  experience,  that  even  the 
heaviest  trouble  may  be,  in  a  measure, 
lightened  by  discussion  and  sympathy. 
Somehow  or  other,  my  own  secret  had 
never  been  as  intolerable  a  burden  to  me, 
after  I  found  that  Mr.  Francis  shared  it, 
and  that  I  was  able  to  speak  of  it  to  him. 

Therefb)"e,  when  this  state  of  things  had 
*  been    getting  worse  instead  of  better  for 
some  (lays,  1  broke  ground  thus  one  morn- 
ing :  — 

"  Look  here,  old  fellow.  It  is  no  use  go- 
ing on  like  this  :  it  (|uite  takes  away  my 
appetite  to  see  you.  Of  course,  I  can  guess 
pretty  well  how  it  is,  but  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  plainly  how  much  you  have  lost. 
It's  far  better  to  talk  of  it,  even  to  me, 
Tufton,  than  to  brooil  over  it." 

"  My  dear  boy,  it's  no  use  talking.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  done" 

"  Let  me  judge  of  that.  Sometimes  two 
heads  are  better  than  one." 

"  Neither  two  heads,  nor  twenty,  can  set 
me  straight.  Pen.  I  must  sell  out,  that  is 
the  long  and  short  of  it." 

"  Impossible  !  Why,  how  much  are  you 
in  for  ?  " 

"  Two  thousand." 


I  gave  a  long  whistle.  It  seemed  to  rae 
almost  incredible  that  he  should  have  gone 
on  losing  at  whist  up  to  this  extent,  in  the 
short  space  of  four  months. 

'•  Whom  do  you  owe  the  chief  part  of 
this  to  V  "  I  asked  at  length. 

"  To  Benevento." 

"  I  thought  so.  Well,  of  course  he  will 
give  you  time  V  '•' 

'•  I  don't  choose  to  ask  him.  I  must  bor- 
row the  money  at  usttrious  interest,  without 
any  prospect  of  being  able  to  repay  it,  or  I 
must  part  with  my  commission.  The  lat- 
ter is  the  only  honest  course,  I  am  afraid  ?  " 

'■  Have  you  been  to  the  Jews  ?  Surely 
with  your  prospects  "  — 

"  My  de;ir  Pen,  I  have  none,  —  that  is 
just  it.  No  man  in  his  senses  would  ad- 
vance any  thing  upon  tlie  chances  of  my 
succeeding  to  the  Barony.  Lord  Tufton 
has  a  better  life  than  mine.  And  as  to 
getting  him  to  help  me,  —  that  is  quite  out 
of  the  question.  I  have  no  security  of  any 
sort  to  offer  but  my  commission.  If  I  am 
to  part  with  that  in  the  end,  I  may  as  well 
do  so  at  once,  and  save  being  robbed  by 
the  Jews." 

"  Promise  me  to  do  nothing  for  a  few 
days,  will  you  ?  "  I  said,  after  a  pause. 
"  There  can  be  no  such  great  hurry,  and 
we  may,  perhaps,  think  of  some  means  ;  but 
do  you  still  go  on  jilaying  V  " 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  to  the  club  for  four 
days,  and  I  feel  utterly  T7r(>tched.  I  am 
ready  to  hang  myself  sometimes.  How- 
ever, there  is  no  use  thinking  about  it.  I 
must  sell  out,  and  emigrate." 

"  Have  you  made  a  vow  not  to  play 
again  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No  ;  for  I  shall  have  to  play  with  .Sel- 
den  once  more.  I  won  fifty  of  him  the 
other  night,  and  must  give  him  his  revenge, 
I  suppose.  After  tlial —  Well,  I'll  make 
no  rash  vows,  but  I  think  I  shall  never 
touch  a  card  again." 

We  talked  over  his  affairs  for  a  long  time. 
I  was  no  man  of  business  ;  but  it  was  man- 
ifest that  he  could  not  remain  in  the  Guards 
upon  the  miserable  income  that  would  re- 
main to  him  if  he  now  took  from  his  capital 
the  two  thousand  pounds  he  owed.  If  he 
could  not  raise  the  money  somehow,  there 
seemed  no  alternative  for  him  but  to  part 
with  his  commission.  The  prospect  of  this 
sacrifice  for  my  friend  made  me  miserable. 
What  means  were  there  of  averting  the 
ruin  of  his  career?  I  racked  my  brain  all 
the  morning  to  suggest  some.  The  only 
outlet  from  the  difficulty,  which  I  had  too 
much  respect  for  my  friend  to  urge,  was  an 
appeal  to  Benevento  for  time. 

"  The  fellow  is  an  adventurer,"  he  said, 
"  who  lives  chiefly  by  play.  I  know  that 
now  ;  but  he  owes  Selden  and  others  money, 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


71 


and  ho  has  allowed  my  debt  to  mount  up 
—  as  hv  saw  I  was  ass  enou<fh  to  <;a  on 
playin<ji;,  —  till  it  has  come  to  this.  1  will 
not  appeal  to  the  "generosity  of  a  man  like 
that,  lie  would,  of  course,  reply  that  he 
can't  pay  his  own  debts  till  he  <;ets  my 
monev  ;  and,  after  all,  he  would  be  quite 
right." 

"I  am  pel  ad  you  have  come  round  to  my 
opinion  of  him,"  I  could  not  resist  saying. 

"  I  don't  think  him  a  scoundrel,  as  I  be- 
lieve you  do.  Pen,  but  simply  a  fellow 
'  without  any  visible  means  of  subsistence,' 
as  the  police  say,  who  lives  by  his  wits  "  — 

"  And  his  good  looks,"  I  added,  with  in- 
dignation. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders . 

"  It  may  be  so.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  un- 
just, because  lie  has  had  the  luck  to  win 
my  money.  If  not  he,  I  suppose  it  would- 
have  been  some  one  else.  I  have  been  a 
fool,  Pen ;  and  a  tool  and  his  money,  you 
know,  are  soon  parted." 

He  took  up  his  violin  ;  it  seemed  his  only 
consolation,  —  a  confidant  to  whom  he 
could  tell  far  more  of  the  remorse  and  long- 
ing of  his  soul  than  he  could  to  me.  I  left 
the  room  quietly,  and  for  more  than  two 
hours  I  could  hear  him  below  me,  drawing 
out  the  wild,  passionate,  and  plaintive  tones 
from  his  beloved  instrument.  Then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  music  changed,  by 
slow  progressions,  into  something  deeper, 
stronger,  more  manful  than  unavailing  re- 
gret :  there  was  resolution  in  it,  —  a  reso- 
lution to  arise  and  conquer  the  weakness  of 
a  wasted  youth  ;  and,  as  I  listened,  my  own 
hope  grew  larger  that  my  friend's  ji^^i'i')  if 
once  passed,  ndght  be  the  turning-point  in 
his  career,  beyond  which  the  man's  fine  and 
gifted  nature  should  develop  itself,  free 
from  the  debasing  bondage  in  which  it  had 
hitherto  been  held. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

I  w^AS  a  long  time  revolving  a  plan  in 
my  mind,  the  execution  of  which  I  knew 
would  be  difficult.  Nothing  but  the  strait 
in  which  Arthur  Tufton  was  would  have 
led  me  to  think  of  calling  on  my  old  cousin 
and  trustee,  Humphrey  Penruddocke,  to 
•whom  I  had  never  spoken  in  my  life ;  but 
to  acconi])Iish  what  I  desired,  it  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  that  I  should  do  this ;  and 
soon  after  twelve  1  threw  myself  into  a  han- 
som, and  drove  to  Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea, 
where  I  knew  Humphrey  lived. 

The  house  was  of  dark  red  brick,  stand- 
ing a  few  yards  back,  with  high  and  v(n-y 
narrow  windows  set  flush  with  the  wall,  the 
woodwork    being  painted  white,   and  the 


door  green  ;  a  brass  knocker  as  good  as 
gold,  for  brilliancy,  and  a  path  of  spotless 
white  pavement  conducting  from  the  iron 
wicket  to  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  a 
prim  little  old  woman,  who  ushered  me  into 
a  wainscoted  parlor  to  the  right  of  the 
door,  where  she  left  me. 

This  room  was  painted  of  a  pale  water- 
green  ;  there  was  nothing  much  less  than  a 
century  old  in  it,  I  think,  from  the  thread- 
bare Turkey  carpet,  upwards;  and  yet  it 
had  an  air  of  great  cheerfulness.  This  was 
partly  owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  brilliant 
cleanliness  of  ever}'  thing.  The  mahogany 
spindle-legged  tables  shone  from  rubliing, 
till  they  had  become  so  many  darkened 
mirrors  ;  the  fine  glaze  of  the  old  Worces- 
ter cups  and  saucers  on  the  mantle-shelf, 
undiuuued  by  any  speck  of  dust,  glittered 
iu  the  light  from  the  windows  opposite  ;  the 
fire-irons,  and  the  old-fashioned  brass  fen- 
der, carried  on  the  sparkle  down  below. 
All  belonged  to  the  past,  nothing  to  the 
present.  Two  or  three  generations  may 
have  passed  away,  and  have  left  that  room 
absolutely  unchanged.  Time  deals  gently 
with  the  inanimate  furniture  of  such  quiet 
old  houses  as  this,  while  it  furrows  and 
bends,  and  finally  removes,  the  human  fur- 
niture that  dwelt  there. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  walked  my 
cousin,  —  the  short,  iron-gray,  bristle- 
headed  man  I  remembered,  with  a  sharp, 
penetrating  face.  As  he  came  forward,  he 
eyed  me  very  narrowly,  not  from  head  to 
foot,  but  rather  from  forehead  to  mouth,  — 
that  is,  his  eyes  never  left  my  face,  either 
then,  or,  as  far  as  I  can  recollect,  during 
the  whole  of  my  visit.  He  held  out  one 
hand,  and  waved  me  to  a  chair  with  the 
other. 

'•  So  you  are  the  boy  who  has  been  in  all 
these  scrapes,  are  you  ?  Hem  !  John  Pen- 
ruddocke spoke  to  me  of  you.  You  and  he 
met  somewhere,  —  you  came  to  inquire 
about  them,  perhaps  V  " 

"  N — no,  I  can't  say  that  I  did  ;  but  I  am 
very  glad  to  hear  they  are  well." 

"I  did  not  say  they  were  well,"  said 
Cousin  Humphrey  rather  cruelly.  "  I  aui 
afraid  John  is  any  thing  hut  well.  He  has 
been  a  great  sufferer  for  some  months 
past." 

'•  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  Where  is 
he  ?  " 

"  At  Paris  just  now,  with  Elizabeth. 
When  they  have  seen  the  sights  there,  they 
are  coming  here  to  me."  A  pause ;  then, 
with  some  severity,  "  His  position  is  a  hard 
one,  young  man,  —  a  very  hard  one,  I  con- 
sider." 

"  So  do  I,"  I  replied,  coloring.  "  I  know 
the  fetdings  you  entertain  towards  my 
branch  of  the  family,  and  that  no  membei 


72 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


of  it  can  be  very  welcome  in  your  house. 
I  sliouKl  not  have  inmuU'd  upon  yon,  there- 
fore, Mr.  Humphrey  Penrmldoeke,  but  for 
one  circumstance,  that,  by  Gen.  llicli's 
■will,  you  are  left  as  one  of  my  trustees." 

I  knew  it  was  an  awkward  way  of  begin- 
nin'i.  but  I  was  nervous. 

lie  looked  at  me  more  suspiciously  (I 
thou'iht)  than  ever,  uttered  the  monosylla- 
ble '•  Oh  I  "  .Tnd  drew  his  lips  tightly. 

"  You  will,  pcrhajis,  remember  that  Gen. 
Rich  left  me  ten  thousand  pounds  ?  You 
and  my  Uncle  Levison  are  trustees  for  the 
same  until  I  am  of  age  —  which  I  shall  not 
be  for  another  year.  In  the  mean  time  I 
have  a  great  friend,  who  is  in  immediate 
want  of  two  thousand  pounds.  It'  he  can- 
not obtain  it  otherwise,  he  must  sell  out  of 
the  army,  and  his  prospects  in  life  be 
ruined.  I  want  to  save  my  friend  by  ad- 
vancing him  this  money." 

The  tight  lips  unclosed. 

"  You  are  speaking  in  a  parable,  are  you 
not,  young  man  ?  The  '  friend  '  is  yourself, 
I  conclude  ?  " 

I  replied  that  I  was  telling  him  the  sim- 
ple truth. 

•'  What  is  your  friend's  name  ?  "  he 
asked. 

■'  Capt.  Tufton." 

"  And  how  comes  he  to  have  contracted 
such  a  debt  ?  " 

"  By  gambling,"  I  answered  boldly. 

"  Hem  !  a  nice  friend  for  you  to  have. 
And  do  you  really  suppose  that  your  uncle 
or  I  could  commit  this  insane  act,  even  if 
we  wished  it,  young  sir  ?  The  thing  is 
quite  out  of  the  question." 

"  Hear  me  first,  Mr.  Penruddocke. 
Capt.  Tufton  is  an  officer  in  the  Guards. 
His  commissions  are  worth  a  great  deal 
more  than  this.  You  may  bind  him  by  a 
deed,  to  sell  out  if,  when  I  call  upon  him  to 
refund  the  money,  it  be  not  forthcoming." 

"  And  how  if  he  dies  in  the  interval  ? 
What  account  should  we  be  able  to  give  of 
our  stewardship  when  w6  deliver  it  up? 
By  that  time  your  sentiments  may  have 
undergone  a  complete  change  as  regards 
this  valued  friend,  and  "  — 

"  Nothing  will  ever  change  them.  I  am 
ready  to  sign  any  number  of  papers.  I 
swear  to  you  that  I  had  fir  sooner  lose  this 
money,  out  and  out,  than  that  Capt.  Tufton 
should  now  be  forced  to  leave  the  ser- 
vice." 

"But  you  forget  that  the  money  is  not 
yours  to  lose.  You  may  die  befljre  you  are 
of  ag«,  in  which  case  Gen.  Rich's  money 
returns  to  his  own  family ;  and  we  are  re- 
sponsible (or  it,  not  to  you  alone,  but  to  all 
the  other  residuary  legatees.  What  \'0U  ask 
is  simply  impossible.  Surely  Col.  Levison 
Rich  must  have  told  you  so." 


"  I  did  not  ask  him.  I  knew  that  he 
would  regard  a  cjuestion  of  this  sort  purely 
from  a  worldly  point  of  view.  I  hoped 
you  would  take  a  ditierent  one,  and  bring 
my  uncle,  at  last,  to  acquiesce  in  yours  ; 
but  I  see  the  justice  of  your  argument 
about  the  Rich  Family.  I  had  not  thought 
of  that  1  There  is  nothing  to  be  done, 
then  V     Poor  Tufton  !  " 

"  No :  there  is  nothing  to  be  done,  in 
this  way."  He  paused,  and  then  continued 
slowly,  "  Your  brother  is  a  very  wealthy 
man.  Two  thousand  pounds  would  not  be 
nmch  to  him.  He  might  possiblv  advance 
it." 

"  I  would  not  ask  him  for  all  the  world  1 " 
I  replied  vehemently.  "I  take  nothing 
from  my  home.  I  do  not  touch  a  shilling 
of  Penruddocke  property.  I  am  imlepend- 
ent.  I  have  left  Beaumanoir  never  to  re- 
turn ;  and,  not  even  to  save  ray  friend,  would 
I  apply  to  Raymond." 

Something  akin  to  a  smile  came  into  the 
old  man's  face. 

"  You  and  your  brother,  I  see,  are  not 
cast  in  the  same  mould.  He  is  a  prudent 
young  man,  I  fancy,  who  would  never  com- 
mit sueh  folly  as  you  are  capable  of,  for  the 
sake  of  a  friend.  I  am  sorry  yours  is  not 
better  worth  the  deep  interest  you  take  ia 
him." 

"  You  wouldn't  say  so  if  you  knew  him 
as  I  do.  When  I  ran  away  from  home,  and 
enlisted  as  a  private,  he  was  lieutenant  of 
my  company,  and  I  became  his  servant." 

My  cousin's  eyes  opened  rather  wider 
than  before,  but  thev  never  relaxed  their 
hold  of  my  face. 

"  He  was  very  kind  to  me  then,  and  now 
that  fate  has  thrown  us  together  upon  an 
equality,  he  is  more  like  a  brother  to  me 
than  my  own  ever  was  or  ever  will  be.  He 
is  the  only  friend  —  except  one  —  I  have 
ever  had ;  he  is  the  best  and  cleverest  fel- 
low in  the  world,  with  only  this  weakness, 
of  which  I  believe  he  is  now  cured.  I 
would  give  anv  thins;  in  the  world  to  save 
him." 

"  As  a  man  makes  his  bed  so  he  must  lie 
on  it,"  said  my  old  kinsman  severely. 

"  Some  get  feather-beds  who  have  no 
right  to  them,  all  the  same,"  I  replied. 

For  one  instant  our  eyes  met,  and  I  knew 
that  he  read  the  application  of  my  words; 
but  when  he  s[)oke  aixain  it  was  to  say,  — 

"  Then  this  gambling  friend  of  yours, 
young  sir,  has  no  prospects  ?  He  has  not 
fooled  away  his  money  in  anticipation,  but 
actually  ruined  himself  without  any  ulti- 
mate hope  for  the  future  ? 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is  so.  His  father 
is  dead.  His  uncle  is  not  an  old  man  now. 
He  may  survive  his  heir,  or  he  may  marry. 
Arthur  can't  build  upon  that." 


PENEUDDOCKE, 


73 


"  Bless  my  soul !  What  fools  men  are  ! 
It  is  ineonceivaljle." 

"  On  this  head  he  has  hardly  been  sane, 
—  I  admit  it.  It  has  been  like  some  poison 
in  the  blood,  goading  him  on,  in  spite  of 
himself,  to  his  ruin.  On  every  other  sub- 
ject 'a  wiser,  more  sensible  fellow  never 
existed." 

"  And  pray,  how  can  you  tell  that  the 
poison  is  out  of  the  blood  now  V  The 
cases  are  very  rare  indeed  in  which  a  man 
who  has  imbibed  any  fatal  habit  of  this 
kind  is  radically  cured.  The  more  allow- 
ance you  make  on  the  plea  of  its  being  a 
species  of  insanity,  the  more  chance  of  the 
sufferer,  as  an  irresponsible  agent,  relapsing 
into  his  old  courses.  I  am  not  sure  that 
the  best  tiling  that  can  befall  the  man  is  to 
have  to  leave  the  army,  work  hard  for  his 
daily  bread,  and  be  out  of  temptation's 
way." 

'■  It  does  no  gentleman  good  to  be  de- 
graded," I  said  rather  hotly. 

"  There  is  no  degradation  in  working 
hard  for  your  daily  bread,  young  sir." 

"  No  :  but  there  is  in  having  to  leave  the 
army  for  debt  ;  and,  when  the  man  is  such 
a  fellow  as  Tufton,  to  think  of  his  whole 
career  being  ruined,  and  of  his  emigrating, 
as  I  fear  he  would,  it  makes  me  mad.  Is  a 
man  to  be  punished  forever  for  a  folly  of 
his  youth  V  " 

"  Not  forever,  I  think,"  returned  Mr. 
Humphrey  with  composure,  "  for  I  do  not 
believe  in  eternal  punishment ;  but  very 
often  for  the  period  of  his  natural  life. 
That,  however,  is  not  the  question.  The 
point  is,  whether  it  may  not  be  for  his  hap- 
piness, even  on  this  side  the  grave,  to  suf- 
fer the  penalty  of  his  folly  now.  It'  the 
man  has  the  stuff  in  him  you  describe, 
transplantation  will  not  ruin  him ;  and 
the  world's  cold  shoulder  will  not  degrade 
hiin  lower  than  he  is  already  degraded  in 
his  own  estimation.  If  the  man  has  a  grain 
of  sense,  he  will  see  it  in  that  light." 

It  was  hopeless  to  argue  with  him.  Our 
standpoints  being  wide  apart,  every  step 
would  only  sunder  us  still  farther;  but  a 
suggestion  —  like  a  flash  of  light —  shot 
through  my  Ijrain  just  then.  If  I  could 
bring  him  and  Tufton  face  to  face,  might 
not  a  personal  knowledge  of  the  man  suc- 
ceed where  my  feeble  eloquence  had  failed  V 
Succeed  in  what  ?  I  asked  myself  the 
question,  but  did  not  stop  to  answer  it.  I 
certainly  had  given  up  all  hojje  now  of  in- 
ducing my  trustees  to  yield  to  my  wishes  ; 
but  a  vague  idea  that  my  old  kinsman,  as 
a  shrewd  business  man,  might,  if  he  so  list- 
ed, be  of  essential  service  to  my  friend, 
was  paramount  in  my  mind,  as  I  said,  — 

"  1  would  give  a  good  deal,  Mr.  Penriid- 
docke,  that  j'ou  should    have  a  talk  with 


Tufton.  Tlie  discussion  of  his  affairs  with 
a  man  like  you  would,  at  all  events,  be  a 
great  thing  for  him.  Perhaps  you  may 
bring  him  round  to  your  view  of  his  ease. 
At  present  he  has  spoken  to  no  one  but 
me,  who  am  ignorant  and  incapable  of  giv- 
ing any  advice.  I  can  only  speak  as  I 
feel  in  the  matter,  and  I  do  feel  very 
strongly.  You  would  understand  this,  I 
think,  if  you  talked  to  him  for  half-an-hour. 
Would  you  —  would  you  mind  seeing 
him  ?  " 

It  was  nearly  a  minute,  I  think,  before 
he  replied,  — 

"  Well,  I  will  see  him,  —  that  is  to  say, 
if  he  likes  to  come  here,  —  after  you  have 
prepared  him  for  the  sort  of  visit  he  must 
expe(;t.  He  will  hear  hard  truths  i'rom  me  ; 
and,  if  he  can't  stomach  them,  he  had  bet- 
ter keep  away." 

He  then  said  that  he  should  be  at  home 
the  whole  of  the  afternoon  ;  and  I  took  my 
leave,  after  expressing  my  gratitude  clum- 
sily enough.  Old  Humphrey  had  too 
much  penetration,  however,  not  to  read 
that  the  sentiment  in  me  was  real. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

I  HAD  anticipated  no  difficulty  in  per- 
suading Tuifon  to  go  and  talk  over  his 
affairs  with  my  old  lawyer-cousin  ;  but  I 
found  it  less  easy  than  I  had  imagined. 
What  was  the  use  of  it  ?  AVhy  should  he 
bore  a  stranger,  and  distress  himself,  by 
a  discussion  of  his  financial  condition  ? 
There  was  but  one  course  open  to  him,  — 
unless  he  went  to  the  Jews,  he  must  sell 
out.  That  was  plain  :  not  all  the  talking 
in  the  world  could  alter  it ;  and  it  was  a 
mere  waste  of  words,  to  enter  upon  this 
painful  topic  with  a  stranger. 

I  spent  nearly  an  hour  in  discussing  the 
point  with  him  ;  and  when  I  did  bring  him 
at  last  to  consent  to  this  interview,  it  was 
due  to  no  arguments  of  mine  in  favor  of 
such  a  course,  but  arose  solely  ti-om  his  re- 
luctance to  pain  me,  after  I  had  done  all 
that  lay  in  my  power  for  him,  and  when  he 
saw  that  his  continued  refusal  would  grieve 
me. 

I  do  not  mean  to  trouble  the  reader  with 
any  account,  at  second  hand,  of  several 
interviews  between  Tufton  and  Humphrey 
Penruddocke,  which  tuUowed  hereon  very 
rapidly.  That  the  latter,  with  all  his  ;i])- 
parent  hardness,  was  a  man  singularly 
susceptible  to  impressions,  I  had  already 
divined  ;  that  he  was  generous,  where  his 
sympathies  were  enlisted,  I  knew  ;  but  I 
was  i'ar  from  fbrseeing  the  result  of  bring- 
ing him  in  contact  with  my  friend,  ardently 


74 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


as  I  desired  to  acconiijlish  this.  Tufton's 
subtle  cliarin,  of  wliicli  I  liave  endeavored, 
but  vainly,  to  give  some  iilea,  fairly  won 
over  the  acute,  stiif-necked  old  man.  In 
liim,  Balak  and  Balaam,  so  to  speak,  were 
fused,  —  the  former  had  harshly  called  on 
him  to  curse  the  sinner,  and  behold  I  the 
latter  had  blessed  him  altojjether  !  Or,  if 
not  altogether,  at  least,  with  such  temper- 
ate admonitions  as  saved  Mr.  Penrud- 
d<K'ke's  kindness  from  appeariu'^  to  be  the 
niei'e  weakness  of  capi'ice.  lie  lent  Tuf- 
ton  the  two  thousand  pounds,  with  no  other 
security  than  that  of  his  bond,  that  the 
money  should  be  repaid  by  small  instal- 
ments, yearly. 

1  never  was  better  pleased  than  at  hav- 
ing been  instrumental  in  bringing  about 
my  friend's  deliverance  ;  and  my  gratitude 
to  old  Humphrey  knew  no  bounds,  but  he 
was  rather  churlish  in  accepting  it.  He 
desired  tne  never  to  allude  to  the  suljject 
again,  and  observed,  that  the  event  would 
aloue  prove  whether  he  had  been  a  fool  or 
not.  He  did  not  encourage  my  returning 
to  the  house,  which  —  though  I  Mt  but  ill- 
at-ease  with  him  —  I  should  have  done  as 
a  duty.  When  John  and  Elizabeth  ar- 
rived, he  would  let  me  know.  And  so  we 
I^arted. 

Having  exhibited  myself  in  no  unfavor- 
able light  in  this  transaction,  it  remains 
for  me  to  detail  an  incident,  connected 
with  the  same  events,  in  which,  no  doubt, 
I  cut  but  a  sorry  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the 
greater  part  of  the  world. 

Bcnevento  was  paid:  Tufton  had  with- 
drawn  his  name  from  the Club,  and 

had  announced  his  resolution  to  abjure 
gambling  in  every  shape.  Selden  had 
been  called  to  Scotland  on  flimily  business, 
so  that  the  cousins  had  not  yet  met  since 
Tufton  had  won  Selden's  money ;  which 
fact,  it  may  be  remembered,  he  named  to 
me,  as  obliging  him,  in  honor,  to  play  once 
more,  should  Selden  desire  it. 

Some  athletic  sports  were  got  up  by  the 
Life  Guards  at  Windsor,  to  which  we  went 
down,  a  large  party  of  men,  on  a  drag. 
Tufton  was  with  us  ;  Lord  Algernon,"  old 
Jack,"  and  most  of  the  well-known  faces 
about  town,  appeared  there  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  and  staid  for  the  mess-dinner 
afterwards.  Amang  those  who  did  so  — 
arriving  by  rather  a  late  train  in  the  after- 
noon—  were  Selden,  just  come  from  Scot- 
land, and  Benevento. 

After  dinner,  what  I  had  foreseen  came 
to  pass.  Tables  were  laid  for  whist  ;  and 
W^alter  Selden,  sauntering  up  to  Tufton, 
said, — 

"  Well,  mon  cou.fln,  though  you  have  ab- 
jured these  naughty  delights,  you  are 
going  to  give   me  my  revenge,  eh  ?     You 


cleaned   me  out  the  other  night,  remem- 
ber." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Tufton  with  a  smile, 
"111  give  you  a  chance  of  revenge,  — but 
only  one.  If  the  gods  give  it  against  you, 
you  must  abide  by  their  decision.  I  am 
never  going  to  J^lay  for  high  stakes  again." 
Was  it  by  accident  that  Benevento  was 
close  to  them  at  the  moment,  and  that  Sel- 
den turned  first  to  him,  —  there  being 
nearly  fifty  men  in  the  room,  —  and  said  he 
su|)posed  he  wouldn't  mind  taking  a  hand  ? 
After  all,  it  was  natural :  these  men  were 
accustomed  to  play  almost  nightly  to- 
gether. Perhaps  I  did  Selden  a  wrong, 
God  only  knows  :  the  truth  has  never  been 
quite  clear  to  me  ;  but  the  fact,  which  I  can 
no  longer  deny,  is  that  I  suspected  these 
men  of  playing  into  each  other's  hands  to 
despoil  my  friend.  I  had  drunk  a  good 
deal  of  wine  at  dinner,  and  though  I  have 
always  maintained  that  I  was  not  only  per- 
fectly sober,  but  that  my  bi'ain  was  as  clear 
as  it  ever  was,  I  will  admit  that  I  was  just 
fired  enough  to  make  me  regardless  of  any 
prudential  considerations  in  my  conduct. 

The  rubber  was  made  up,  some  man 
whonti  I  did  not  know  being  the  fourth  ; 
and  when  they  first  cut  for  partners,  Bene- 
vento and  Tufton  played  together.  I  felt 
an  unaccountable  conviction  that  my  friend 
wouM  win  now  ;  and  he  did,  thus  obliging 
him  to  go  on  playing.  There  were  two  or 
three  other  tables ;  and  I  saAmtered  about, 
apparently  watching  them  all,  but,  in  real- 
ity, never  losing  sight  of  my  friend. 

Benevento  was  seated  with  his  back  to 
the  window,  against  the  curtains  of  which 
the  table  was  drawn  so  close  that  no  one 
could  possibly  stand  between  them  and 
it.  Wlien  the  first  game  was  over  there 
was  a  change  of  partners,  l)ut  Benevento 
kept  his  place.  Selden  and  Tufton  moved  ; 
and  the  former,  having  lost  an  inconsidera- 
ble bet  or  two,  began  to  ofTer  to  lay  heavier 
odds  on  the  rubber,  which  were  taken  by  two 
of  the  lookers-on.  Tufton  resolutely  re- 
fused to  bet.  I  took  up  my  post  near  the 
curtains,  as  close  to  Benevento  as  I  could, 
upon  his  left  hand;  and  in  front  of  me 
stood  old  Jack.  One  or  two  Guardsmen 
were  behind  Selden,  watching  his  play, 
which  was  re(;koned  to  be  fii-st-rate ; 
another  stood  upon  Benevento's  right  hand. 
All  idea  of  collusion  between  these  and 
any  of  the  players  would  have  been  ab- 
surd —  they  were  officers  and  gentlemen  — ■ 
fine,  frank  soldiers,  almost  strangers  to  the 
Italian  uj)on  whom  my  suspicions  were 
fixed.  I  scanned  his  hard,  handsome  face 
the  restless  glitter  of  his  eye,  the  rapid 
movements  of  his  serpentine  white  fingers  ; 
and  on  these  latter  iny  attention  became 
riveted.     I  no  longer  attendud  to  the  prog- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


75 


ress  of  the  frame,  I  no  lonjrcr  watched  the 
cards ;  it  was  the  hands  that  held  them 
upon  which  my  eyes  were  fastened.  Once 
—  twice  —  I  thought  I  saw  it.  Did  my 
eyes  deceive  me  ?  Was  it  an  hallucina- 
tion ?  I  had  heard  of  peojjle  brin^■in(T 
themselves  to  believe  they  saw  things,  such 
as  "  winking  Madonnas,"  owing  to  an  ex- 
cited state  of  the  system.  I  set  my  teeth, 
and  breathed  hard ;  I  would  wait  —  I 
would  be  quite  sure  —  there  should  be  no 
selt-decejition  about  it. 

/  saw  it  a  third  time. 

And,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  I 
dashed  upon  him,  seizing  with  both  of  mine 
the  left  hand  next  me,  and  calling  out, — 

"You  blackguai'd!  You've  got  a  card 
up  your  sleeve  !  " 

Before  tlie  words  were  out  of  my  mouth, 
I  was  on  the  floor,  doubled  up  liy  a  blow 
from  his  right  fist ;  but  I  never  relaxed  my 
grasp  of  his  left,  dragging  him  down  with 
me,  and  nearly  upsetting  the  table  as  we 
rolled  ton-ether  under  it.  I  heard  con- 
fused  cries  of — 

"  What  the  devil  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

"  Separate  them  !  By  G —  !  the  boy's 
mad  !  " 

'•  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  said  he  cheated." 

"Take  the  Italian  fellow  off!  — he'll 
kill  him  !  "  shouted  one  ;  for  his  right  hand 
had  now  seized  my  throat. 

"  For  God's  sake.  Pen,  are  you  drunk  ? 
Get  up,  man  !  "  cried  Tufton. 

"  Not  —  until  you  —  search  his  sleeve  !  " 
I  gasped  out,  nearly  choked  ;  but  I  clung 
on  like  grim  death,  all  the  same. 

Benevento  relinquished  his  hold  of  my 
throat,  and  we  both  rose  to  our  feet,  while 
he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  quivering  with 
passion,  — 

"  Gentlemen,  I  appeal  to  you  —  I  appeal 
to  you  against  this  unwarrantable,  coward- 
ly attack  u[)on  a  foreigner.  You  hear  his 
accusation  ?  Search  me.  You  see  his 
hands  have  never  left  me.  I  demand  to  be 
searched !  " 

"  Yes,  search  him  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  and  if 
you  don't  find  the  ace  of  diamonds"  — 

1  let  go  his  arm,  and  he  slipped  off'  his 
coat,  unt'astened  his  gold  sleeve-links,  and 
rolled  his  shirt-sleeve  up.  There  was  no 
card  there.  How  he  had  got  rid  of  it,  I 
cannot  conceive  :  that  he  liad  secreted  it, 
I  feel  morally  certain  ;  but  of  course  pub- 
lic opiniiMi  was  dead  against  me. 

"  1  must  say  it's  a  most  (ionfbumled 
shame  !  "  said  Selden.  "I  never  heard  of 
a  more  disgraceful  attack.  And,  by  Jove  ! 
here  the  veiy  card  is  ! "  and  he  jiickcd  it 
up  irom  the  cunlnsed  mass  upun  the  floor. 

"  Monstrous  !  "  said  Lord  Algy.  "  Of 
course,    Penruddocke,   you   will    apologize 


amply  to  Count  Benevento  for  this  gross 
outrage  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes  —  I  will  undertake  that  he 
does,"  interrupted  Tufton,  before  I  could 
reply  ;  and  he  took  hold  of  my  arm.  "  Pen- 
ruddocke  has  had  rather  more  than  is  good 
for  him  ;  but  in  the  morning  I  am  sure  he 
will  be  the  first  to  regret  what  he  has  done, 
and  to  apologize  to  Count  Benevento." 
Then  turning  to  me,  in  a  low  yoice  he 
added,  "  Come  away ;  don't  say  a  word 
now  —  it  can  do  no  good.  Leave  it  all  to 
me  to  settle  "  — 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  I  saw  "  — 

"  Never  mind  ;  perhaps  yon  did.  There's 
nothing  for  it  but  to  apologize.  If  you 
reiterate  the  charge,  after  that  test,  every 
man  will  be  against  you." 

'■  Such  a  scene  as  this,  I  am  haptiy  to 
sav,  has  never  occurred  before  in  our  mess- 
room,"  said  a  captain  in  the  Life  Guards, 
addressing  Tufton,  though  his  wonls  were 
directed  to  me,  "  and  I  am  sure  that  INIr. 
Penruddocke,  as  a  gentleman,  will  not 
refuse  to  give  Count  Benevento  ample  and 
immediate  satisfaction,  in  the  shape  of  an 
apology,  before  all  of  us  here,  who  have  wit- 
nessed the  insult  he  has  just  olfered  one  of 
our  guests." 

Tufton  led  me  away  by  the  arm  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room.  My  appearance, 
no  doubt,  lent  itself  to  the  assumption  that 
I  was  more  than  half-drunk.  I  telt  dazed, 
confounded  by  the  miserable  failure  of  my 
denunciation,  convinced  that  the  testimony 
of  my  eyes  had  not  deceived  me,  yet  ut- 
terly unable  to  prove  its  truth;  and,  ])er- 
plexed  as  to  what  course  honesty  and  hon- 
or ought  now  to  lead  me  to  pursue,  I  told 
Tufton  circumstantially  what  Iliad  seen. 

''  My  dear  boy,  you  fancied  it.  You 
have  always  been  strongly  ])rejudiced 
against  that  fellow,  and  you  fixed  your 
eyes  on  his  hands  with  a  sort  of  pre-con- 
viction  that  he  was  not  ])laying  fair."  (I 
could  not  deny,  that,  so  lar,  he  was  right.) 
"  Similar  hallucinations  are  not  uncommon  ; 
but  in  your  case  it  has  an  ugly  look, 
because  " —  he  hesitated. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Because,  you  see,  the  world  fancies 
that  he  has  cut  you  out  with  Lady  Castle, 
and  that  }ou  arc;  jealous." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  ?  You're  not 
serious  'i " 

"  Indeed  I  am.  I  should  never  have 
named  such  idle  gossip  to  you,  but  tor  this, 
Pen.  And  now  you  see  how  doubly  ne- 
cessary it  is  that  you  should  frankly  e.\pri:ss 
your  regret  (or  what  you  have  done.  You 
haven't  a  leg  to  stand  on,  my  boy  —  you 
haven't,  indec;d." 

'•  Jf  the  man  wants  satisfaction,  I'll  fight 
him,"  said  I  stubbornly. 


76 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  Nonsenpe  !  You  forcjet  that  you  would 
lose  your  commission,  and  find  no  one  to 
act  as  your  i'ricnd  in  such  a  pieces  of  folly. 
/certainly  would  not.  Now,  just  take  niy 
advice.  Come  out  of  the  room  quietly, 
and  leave  me  to  settle  this  business.  I 
will  not  com])romise  your  honor,  depend 
on  it." 

"  Remember,"  said  I,  at  last,  as  he  led  me 
reluctantly  away,  "  I  won't  eat  my  words. 
You  may  say  that  I  am  very  sorry  for  what 
is  past,  and  that  I  foel  I  acted  rashly,  —  that 
is  true  enough.  I  ought  to  have  known  that 
the  scoundrel  would  be  clever  enouirh  to 


J"i 


■"cle   away   the   card   somehow.     If  he 


chooses  to  take  that  as  an  apology,  he 
may  ;  but  mind,  I  won't  say  I  was  mis- 
taken." 

Old  Jack  came  up,  and  took  my  other 
arm,  as  I  was  leaving  the  room.  AVlth  all 
his  faults,  the  old  vaurien  is  kind-hearted, 
and  thought  to  help  me  out  of  my  scrape 
by  imposing  on  the  spectators  the  fiction 
that  I  was  unable  to  walk  unassisted. 

"  Never  mind,  my  boy,"  he  whispered  as 
he  grasped  my  elbow.  "  I  know  you're  not 
drunk  ;  and  I  believe  you  saw  it,  just  as  you 
see  me  ;  but  he  was  too  many  for  you.  So 
there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  knock  un- 
der." 

I  have  always  had  a  sneaking  affection 
for  old  Jack  from  that  moment.  No  one  — 
not  even  Tutlon,  my  friend,  in  whose  inter- 
est it  was  I  had  set  myself  to  watch  this 
blackguard's  play  —  believed  me  (or,  at  all 
events,  would  admit  that  he  believed  me), 
with  this  exception  of  "  old  Jack  "  ! 

How  Tufton  terminated  the  affair,  I 
need  not  detail  at  length.  That  he  ten- 
dered an  apology  more  conciliatory  in 
form  than  in  substance,  which  was  held  to 
be  far  from  satisfactory  by  the  majority  ot 
Guardsmen  present,  formed  the  topic  of 
conversation  for  some  days  afterwards ; 
but,  at  the  time,  it  seems  to  have  been 
agreed  by  common  consent  to  regard  my 
attack  as  the  outburst  of  a  jealous,  tipsy 
boy,  whom  it  behooved  the  Italian  to  treat 
with  generosity,  if  not  contempt.  And 
Benevento,  yielding  to  the  advice  of  Sel- 
den  and  others,  graciously  consented  to  do 
so. 

Madame  d'Arnheim  was  very  kind  and 
sympathizing  when  I  told  her  what  had 
l\appened.  Of  course  she  had  heard  her 
husband's  version  of  the  affair,  which  was 
pretty  much  what  Tufton  suggested  it 
would  be  ;  and  my  friend  would  not  have 
been  a  woman  if  she  had  resisted  saving,  — 

"  All  this  arises  from  your  having  gone 
so  much  to  Lady  Castle's.  You  met  the 
man  constantly  there,  and  took  a,  violent 
dislike  to  him.  This  was,  no  doubt,  very 
evident ;   and  the  world  put  its  own  con- 


struction—  which  is  always  the  worst  — 
upon  it.  Do  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you, 
that  you  cannot  touch  pitch  without  some 
of  it  sticking." 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

The  season  was  over.      All   the  world 

was  at  Goodwood;  but  I,  as  junior  ensign, 
was  not  entitled  to  leave  of  absence,  and 
was  on  duty,  pretty  constantly,  for  those 
of  my  brother  subalterns  who  were  away, 
without  which  employment,  indeed,  the 
time  would  have  hung  heavy  on  my  hands. 
But  I  fielt  more  and  more  every  day  that 
soldiering  was  mv  true  vocation.  I  took 
a  keen  interest  in  my  men,  and  they  knew 
it ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  they  learnt 
that  it  was  not  easy  to  humbug  me. 
Having  lived  as  one  of  them,  I  was  ac- 
quainted with  all  their  "  little  ways,"  their 
good  points  and  their  weak  ones;  and  I 
believed  that  I  could  generally  distinguish 
a  lying  sneak  from  an  honest  fellow  better 
than  officers  of  three  times  my  standing  in 
the  service. 

I  made  the  internal  economy  of  my  com- 
pany a  study  that  summer.  A  man  can  be 
a  soldier  in  nothing  beyond  the  name,  if  he 
have  not  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  ma- 
terials at  his  command.  It  is  as  essential 
as  the  art  of  moving  a  battalion  ;  and,  to 
obtain  influence  in  that  heterogeneous 
family  over  which  a  man  is  set,  I  have 
always  held  to  be  as  important  as  to  direct 
its  movements  on  the  parade-ground. 

I  was  coming  out  of  barracks  one  day, 
when  I  observed  a  private  of  some  regi- 
ment of  the  Line  speaking  to  the  sergeant 
of  the  guard.  His  back  was  towards  me  ; 
but  the  well-known  j-ellow  facings  struck 
home  to  me  like  a  familiar  tune.  He 
turned :  it  was  Joe  Carter.  He  saluted 
me  without  a  smile  —  decorum  personified. 
"  I  was  inquiring  for  you,  sir,"  he  said, 
grave  as  a  judge  —  no  twinkle  of  re- 
cognition. 

"  I  am  coinff  home  :  will  you  come  and 
see  me  there,  Carter  ?  "  and  I  gave  him  my 
address. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  standing  at 
attention  in  my  sitting-room,  and  I  was 
listening  to  his  story.  He  had  been  left  at 
the  depot,  which  was  at  Chatham.  See- 
ing my  name  and  regiment  mentioned  in 
some  paper,  he  had  come  up  to  London  in 
the  hope  of  finding  me,  and  with  the  ob- 
ject, moreover,  of  preferring  a  request. 
His  desire  was  to  be  transferred  to  the 
Guards,  and  he  should  like  to  become  my 
servant. 

"  I'm  sick  of  knocking  about ;  but  I've 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


77 


no  home,  nor  friends  like,  to  go  to.  You 
and  me,  sir,  was  good  friends  when  you 
was  a  lad  ;  and  I  should  like  to  be  your  ser- 
vant. You  mind  as  I  always  had  a  taste 
that  way  ;  but  I  wants  some  master  as  I 
can  take  an  interest  in.  I  wouldn't  be  at 
the  pains  for  any  officer  as  is  left  now  in 
the th." 

"  Well,"  I  said  hestitatingly,  "  I  should 
like  very  much  to  have  you  about  me,  Joe  ; 
but  how  about  your  character  of  late  ?  — 
often  in  the  defaulter's  book  ?  " 

"  I'm  to  go  out  with  the  next  draught  as 
lance-corporal,  if  I  sticks  to  the  regiment ; 
but  I'm  dead  sick  of  it,  that's  the  truth  : 
and  if  the  Guards  won't  take  me,  I've  a 
bit  of  money,  and  I'll  Ijuy  my  discharge, — 
that's  about  the  long  and  short  of  it,  sir." 

We  had  a  long  parley,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  pointed  out  how  badly  my  boots 
were  blacked;  and  it  ended  in  my  undcr^ 
taking  to  do  all  I  could  to  effect  his  trans- 
fer. Had  I  been  a  few  years  older,  I 
should,  probably,  have  hesitated  before  un- 
dertaking to  ask  for  the  personal  services 
of  one  with  wliora  I  had  been  on  such  terms 
as  I  had  with  Joe  ;  but  I  had  a  great  regard 
for  him :  he  was  among  my  pleasantest 
memories  of  the  ranks,  and  the  very  tact  of 
this  request  of  his  proved  his  attachment  to 
me.  With  the  rash  impetuosity  of  twenty 
years,  I  overlooked  all  the  drawbacks  to 
such  an  arrangement,  and  —  though  I  am 
bound  to  admit  these  were  serious  ones  — 
the  event  justified  my  imprudence.  The 
transfer  was  effected,  and  Joe  became  my 
servant,  vice  the  pri\ate  who  blacked  boots 
so  badly.  Our  mutual  relations  were  pecu- 
liar. I  will  not  say  that  he  did  not  permit 
himself  a  license  of  tongue  at  times,  which 
would  have  been  intolerable  in  any  other 
servant ;  he  often  lectured  me.  but  it  was 
with  the  strong  interest  of  a  man  who  re- 
garded himself  as  especially  instituted  to 
be  my  monitor,  not  with  the  presumjttion 
of  one  who  encroai^hed  upon  the  limits  per- 
missible in  our  relative  positions.  I  had 
occasion,  as  this  narrative  will  show,  to 
bless  the  day  that  Joe  Carter  entered  my 
service. 

The  D'Arnheims  were  gone  to  Germany. 
She  gave  me,  at  parting,  a  little  purse  of 
her  knitting,  and  bade  me  write  to  her, 
which  I  did  with  tolerable  regularity. 
Tufton  Avas  in  Scotland  ;  Lady  Castle  and 
her  set  at  Cowes  ;  my  uncle  paying  a  round 
of  visits.  Exccjit  one  or  two  desolate 
Guardsmen,  like  mvself,  left  to  defend  the 
metropolis,  there  was  no  creature  to  sjjcak 
to.  We  jjlayed  at  jiool  of  an  evening  at 
the  club,  or  drove  to  iiichmond,  or  tried  to 
sit  out  some  dreary  extravaganza,  the  sole 
point  of  which  seemed  to  lie  in  the  short- 
ness of  the  trirls'  skirts.     Heavens !  what 


would  our  fathers,  trained  in  the  schools  of 
Kean  and  Kemble,  say  to  the  cohorts  of 
fat  girls,  crammed  into  flesh-colored  tights, 
and  lean  ones,  padded  to  fit  the  same? 
What  would  they  say,  could  they  witness 
their  "  break-downs,"  listen  to  the  inane 
rubbish  the  poor  wretches  have  to  utter, 
and  ])e  told  that  our  stage  has  come  to 
this  V 

The  monotony  of  my  life  was  delightfully 
broken  in  upon,  towards  the  end  of  August, 
by  a  visit,  one  morning,  from  ]\Ir.  Francis. 
He  was  passing  through  London  with  the 
boys  whom  he  had  been  educating  in  Ire- 
land, and  who  were  now  going  to  the  col- 
lege of  St.  Omer.  Mr.  Francis  was  to  take 
his  pupils  there,  after  which  his  plans 
seemed  unsettled.  If  employment,  such  as 
he  liked,  came  in  his  way,  he  would  take 
it ;  but,  though  poor,  he  was  always  indif- 
ferent to  money,  and  it  was  not  every  post 
he  would  accept.  Unless  he  saw  a  prospect 
of  usefulness,  a  field  for  exertion  which  was 
likely  to  return  fruits  in  kind,  he  could  not 
throw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the  work. 
He  had  been  asked  to  take  charge  of  tlie 
son  of  a  fond  and  foolish  duchess,  wlio 
wished  her  dear  boy  to  travel,  and  enlarge 
what  she  was  pleased  to  call  his  mind. 
The  tutor  was  to  have  four  hundred  a  year, 
and  all  his  expenses  paid.  '■  But,"  as  Mr. 
Francis  said,  •'  I  saw  that  any  other  man 
would  do  as  well,  ])erhaps  better  than  I 
could,  with  Lord  Reginald.  I  had  one  or 
two  interviews  with  him  :  but  I  found  there 
was  no  ground  upon  which  I  could  get  any 
firm  hold  ;  and,  without  that,  it  is  disheart- 
ening work,  Osmund.  Every  man  has 
something  laid  out  for  him  to  do  in  the 
world  ;  and  when  he  finds  out  what  that  is, 
he  should  do  it,  and  not  turn  to  other  men's 
work.  Most  lives  are  failures,  I  am  afraid  ; 
Inu  there  would  be  less  of  self-reproach  and 
disappointment,  if  we  all  stuck  to  this." 

I  could  read  between  the  lines  of  what 
he  said.  I  knew  to  what  extent  his  noble 
character,  even  more  than  his  fine  intellect, 
had  influenced  me.  My  brother  had  bene- 
fited by  the  latter,  and  had  become  a  rare 
scholar.  I,  with  my  poorer  abilities,  had 
imbibed  what  was  of  yet  more  value,  —  a 
belief  in  goodness,  a  respect  and  admiration 
for  what  was  tiiithful  and  upright.  Sur- 
rounded by  much  that  tended  to  make  me 
cynical  and  distrustful  of  sincerity,  from 
my  earliest  years,  I  had  never  lost  my  faith 
in  human  nature ;  and,  though  too  often 
weak  and  backsliding  myself,  I  never  for- 
got the  high  standard  of  excellence  set 
before  me  by  Ambrose  Francis.  He  was 
right  in  feeling  that  his  work  lay  in  higher 
fields  than  those  of  the  mere  jjedagogue. 

A  few  days  after  i\Ir.  Francis's  visit  I 
had  another  pleasant  burj)rise.     In  walked 


78 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


my  Cousin  Jolin ;  a  p^ood  deal  clian^cd  in 
the  fifteen  niontlis  which  had  ehipsed  since 
wc  liad  met  at  Ghent,  lii?  face  sliowiiiji;  the 
traces  of  Mitlcrini;,  and  his  fi<inre,  whicli 
had  been  so  active  and  erect,  niucli  ben', 
but  tlie  same  kindly  smile,  the  same  heart\ 
manner,  as  of  old. 

"I'm  come  from  Humphrey,  to  ask,  if 
vou're  not  too  fine  a  gentleman,  my  boy, 
whe4^her  \ou'll  eat  a  slice  roast  beef  at  his 
bouse  to-d;iy,  at  six.  We've  only  been 
here  two  days,  but  there's  Liz  is  wanting 
badly  to  see  you.  She  pricked  up  hen- 
ears,  I  can  tell  you,  when  she  heard  from 
Humphrej'  of  your  visit.  The  lass  is  finely 
grown  ;  and,  bless  you  !  she  parlny-vous  now 
like  any  French  monkey." 

"  I  shall  be  charmed  to  dine  with  Cousin 
Humphrey.  He  is  a  regular  brick,  though 
I  confess  I  feel  rather  shy  of  him,  but 
Elizabeth  will  be  tiiere  to  protect  me.  I 
shall  be  so  glad  to  see  her.  Hu-.v  long  are 
her  hoUilays  ?  " 

"Well,  you  see,  I  am  not  sure;  I  am 
half  thinking  of  keeping  her  here  now. 
Humphrey  says  her  education  could  be 
carried  on  at  home,  as  well  as  in  ibreign 
parts  now  ;  and,  the  truth  is,  my  boy,  I've 
been  very  ill.  I'm  not  the  man  I  was.  I 
feel  I  may  be  carried  otF  any  day,  and  it 
would  just  break  the  lass's  heart  if  she 
were  away  from  me  then." 

"  Come,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Cou- 
sin John.  There  is  many  a  good  year  in 
store  lor  you  yet ;  but  I  think  you  are  (juite 
right  about  Elizabeth.  Why  should  you  be 
separated  ?  A  clever  girl,  as  she  is,  will 
get  on  at  home  quite  as  well  with  a  gov- 
erness." 

"  Hm  !  I  don't  know  about  that.  She 
likes  her  own  way,  you  see  ;  and,  between 
you  and  me,  I  doubt  an}^  one  woman  being 
able  to  manage  her.  At  school  there  were 
several,  besides  masters,  and  even  then," 
he  raiseil  his  ej'ebrows  significantly,  "  they 
had  often  a  rough  time  of  it.  My  Liz  is  a 
good  girl,  but  she  wants  a  tight  hand,  and 
discipline.  I'm  sadly  afraid  Humphrey 
won't  be  of  any  more  use  than  I  am  :  he 
spoils  her  too ;  and  what  will  any  gover- 
ness be  able  to  do  against  us  V  I  am  afraid 
I  ought  to  send  her  to  school  in  London,  if 
she  doesn't  return  to  Ghent." 

"  I  wonder,"  I  exclaimed,  suddenly  fired 
by  an  idea  ;  and  then  I  stopped. 

"  Well,  out  with  it,  my  man  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Francis  would 
undertake  a  girl's  education." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Francis  ?  " 

"  The  best  and  cleverest  man  in  the 
whole  world.  He  was  my  tutor,  —  but 
don't  fancy  that  you  can  judge  of  what  he 
is  by  what  I  am.  He  is  a  man  whom  Eliza- 
beth would  learn  to  love  and  to  obey,  before 


he  had  been  a  week  in  the  house;  and  she 
is  just  the  sort  of  character  that  would  in- 
terest him.  The  only  thing  is,  he  has 
never  had  any  thing  to  do  with  girls." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  Lizzie.  She 
likes  being  treated  like  a  boy,"  laughed 
Cousin  John.  "  Upon  my  life,  Osmund,  I 
think  your  idea  a  very  good  one.  A  tutor 
never  occurred  to  Humphrey  or  me;  but, 
if  we  could  really  find  such  a  man  as  you 
describe,  nothing  could  be  better." 

I  sat  down,  and  wrote  to  Mr.  Francis,  at 
St.  Omer;  and  six  o'clock  found  me  at  the 
old  house  in  Chesne  Walk. 


CHAPTER  XXVH. 

I  WAS  ushered  into  a  long  sitting-room 
up  stairs,  overlooking  the  river.  The  ceil- 
ing was  richly  ornamented  in  plaster,  after 
the  fashion  of  Queen  Anne's  day ;  on  the 
walls  were  some  fine  old  engravings,  from 
Hogarth  ;  the  floor,  of  polished  oak,  had  no 
car|)et.  The  two  old  gentlemen  were  on  a 
hard,  thin-legged  settee  at  the  farther  ex- 
tremity of  the  apartment,  earnestly  dis- 
cussing some  matter,  evidently  of  interest 
to  both.  At  the  other  end  of  the  room,  on 
one  of  the  window-seats,  which  were  raised 
a  step,  so  as  to  command  a  better  view  of 
the  river  fi'om  the  high  narrow  windows, 
sat  Elizabeth,  w-ith  a  book  in  her  lap  ;  but 
I  rather  think  she  had  been  watching  for 
me,  and  not  reading  her  book.  Her  face 
was  beaming  with  smiles ;  and  she  ran  up  to 
me,  as  I  entered,  with  a  naturalness,  an  ab- 
sence oi'  'retenue,  which  no  schoolmistress 
had  been  able  to  spoil. 

I  must  not  be  unjust  to  the  school-mis- 
tresses, however.  They  had  done  much 
for  her.  She  had  been  a  singularly  awk- 
ward child  fifteen  months  ago,  —  angular  in 
her  movements,  and  slouching  in  her  car- 
riage. She  was  now  erect,  well-grown, 
free  and  firm  in  her  walk,  and,  though  not 
absolutely  graceful,  fiir  from  being  conspic- 
uously the  reverse.  Grace  has  more  to  do 
with  the  mind  than  the  body ;  and  it  did 
not  belong  to  my  cousin's  character  :  but 
the  education  of  the  body,  like  that  of  the 
mind,  had  develo])ed,  and  strengthened, 
and  balanced  it.  Her  face,  by  force  of  its 
great  intelligence,  could  no  longer  be  called 
ugly,  —  scarcely  even  plain,  I  think;  the 
mouth  was  so  full  of  play,  the  eyes  so  full 
of  light,  the  whole  movement  of  the  fea- 
tui'es  so  spontaneous.  How  many  a  hand- 
some mask  is  spoiled  by  the  absence  of 
this  latter  charm,  beautiful  in  repose,  dis- 
cordant when  animated  !  Elizabeth's  face, 
on  the  contrary,  could  never  be  judged 
properly  until  she  spoke.     To  the  passer- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


79 


bv  in  the  street  it  had  no  beauty  to  recom- 
iiierid  it :  few  who  knew  her  could  fail  to 
think  it  interesting;.  Iler  looks,  like  her 
nioveuients  and  like  her  mind,  Hashed  with 
the  rapidity  of  liihtning,  —  twenty  differ- 
ent fleams  of  expression  in  a  minute,  when 
she  was  really  excited  ;  and  the  eyes  never 
contradicted  the  mouth,  nor  the  mouth  the 
words  to  which  it  gave  utterance.  'J'hcre 
■was  a  completeness  about  the  girl's  nature, 
which,  in  these  days  of  half  and  halfness, 
was  very  uncommon. 

She  wore  a  brown  hoUand  dress,  with  a 
leatlicr  belt  round  her  waist ;  her  red  hair, 
which  was  not  long,  was  brushed  back 
froin  her  full,  wide  brow.  Nothing  could 
be  more  simple  than  her  attire;  ;  but  (I 
noted  with  pleasure)  every  thing  about  her 
was  scrupulously  clean,  forming,  in  this 
respect  again,  an  advantageous  contrast  to 
her  a])pearance  when  we  last  met. 

''  Cousin  Osmund,  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you  again  !  "  slie  exclaimed,  grasping  my 
Land.  "  It  seems  about  a  hundred  years 
since  that  time  at  Ghent." 

"  How  old  and  wise  you  must  have  be- 
come ! "  I  said,  laughing.  '•  Well,  I  am 
delighted  to  see  you,  Elizabeth"  —  and 
then,  before  adding  any  thing  more,  I 
turned  to  my  old  host.  He  held  out  his 
hand  with  a  friendly  word  and  a  nod. 

He  was  not  a  man  who  dealt  in  exagger- 
ated phrases  at  any  time  ;  but  I  believe  he 
was  glad  to  see  me  there  :  and  it  needed 
no  acute  perception  to  tell  that  the  pres- 
ence of  John  and  Elizabeth  —  especially 
the  latter  —  made  the  old  fellow  really 
happy.  He  did  not  talk  much  :  he  left 
that  chiefly  to  us  ;  but  he  threw  out  a  dry 
little  joke  every  now  and  again ;  chuckled 
quietly  at  some  of  the  girl's  strange,  unex- 
pected sayings  ;  and  once  I  observed  him 
stroke  her  hand,  as  it  lay  near  his  on  the 
table.  But  it  was  chiefly  the  softened 
expression  of  his  face  which  indicated  its 
owner's  satisfiiction.  He  had  had  little  to 
care  for  in  his  long  life  :  he  had  found  a 
living  interest  in  his  old  age. 

The  neat,  antitjuated  parlor-maid  an- 
nounced dinner;  Cousin  Humphrey  cere- 
moniously oH'ered  his  arm  to  Elizabeth, 
who  looked  as  if  she  did  not  exactly  know 
how  to  hook  on  to  it,  or  any  thing  else  that 
interfered  with  her  perfect  independence 
of  movement ;  and  we  descended  to  an  oak- 
wainscoted  room  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
looking  on  to  a  greenery,  erst  a  trim-bor- 
dered garden,  no  doubt,  now  a  pleasant 
wilderness  of  shrubs,  over-shadowed  by  lar- 
ger trees.  The  arrangement  of  the  table, 
and  the  repast,  were  in  harmony  with  the 
hotise  and  its  master  :  none  of  your  new-fan- 
gled arrangements  of  dessert  and  flowers; 
a  silver  cruet-stand  in  the  centre ;  two  full- 


stomached  decanters,  wearing  silver  neck- 
laces, labelled  '-Port"  and  "Madeira,"  at 
oj)posite  angles ;  our  foo<l  before  us,  in 
handsome  old  Nankin  dishes;  and  then, 
when  it  was  despatched,  the  cloth  removed, 
and  the  mahogany  revealed,  black  with  age, 
and  bright  with  daily  rubbing,  so  that 
fruit,  glass,  and  china  stood  reflected  like 
so  many  dazzling  islands  on  a  brown  lake. 

"  Did  you  make  many  li-iends  at  Mad- 
emoiselle Pla^ant's,  Elizabeth  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  I  hate  girls  :  they're  all  mean  !  " 

"  Come,  that  is  sweeping.  Whv,  what 
did  they  do  V  " 

"Tell  tales,  listen  at  keyholes,  blab  to 
mademoiselle,  —  every  thing  that  is  horrid. 
If  I  tried  to  get  over  the  fr  u'den  wall,  one 
of  them  was  sure  to  go  and  peach.  My 
only  friends  were  the  Abbe  and  the  gar- 
dener." 

"  The  gardener  !     What  was  he  like  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  never  tohl.  If  I  stole  the 
apples  "  — 

"  Come,  now,  I  call  tJial  mean.  Stealing 
apples  I  " 

"  It  would  have  been,  if  they'd  given  us 
enough  to  eat ;  but  they  didn't.  I  consid- 
ered it  quite  fair  that  I  should  get  all  I 
could,  when  I  knew  dad  was  paying  such 
a  sum  for  my  food." 

"  And  so  you  liked  the  gardener  because 
he  let  you  steal  the  apples  ?  " 

Humphrey  smiled;  Elizabeth  frowned, 
and  then  laughed. 

"  He  was  very  kind  to  me  :  that  is  why 
I  liked  him.  He  used  to  tell  me  in  which 
trees  the  birds'  nests  were,  and  I  used  to 
climb  up  and  get  them.  Then  he  let  me 
keep  my  rabbit  in  a  corner  of  the  garden, 
and  gave  me  lettuce  and  things  "  — 

"  Mademoiselle  Pla9ant's  lettuces,"  I 
struck  in,  — "  what  generosity  !  " 

"  So,  on  the  Jour  de  I'An,"  continued 
Elizabath,  heedless  of  the  interruption,  "  I 
bought  him  a  beautiful  china  pipe,  with  a 
red-cheeked  lady  on  it  —  for  we  were  al- 
lowed to  go  out,  just  once,  to  buy  elrennes, 
—  and,  after  that,  he  let  me  do  just  what  I 
liked." 

"  And  those  are  your  conditions  for 
friendships,  Miss  Lizzie  ?  "  said  Humphrey, 
with  an  amused  twinkh-  of  the  eye. 

"  N — no.  Cousin  Humphrey,  not  exactly. 
If  I  respect  any  one's  will  —  not  merely 
their  authority  ;  but,  if  I  can  feel  that  any 
one  is  really  my  master,  I  don't  mind  obey- 
ing. 1  think  I  had  rather,  than  have  it  all 
my  own  way." 

"  And  pray,  did  you  respect  the  Abbe's 
will  V  "  I  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"  Partly, Vnd  partly  not.   He  was  a  dirty, 
little  old  man,  who  spilt  his  snulf  all  over 
his  book  ;  but  he  was  very  clever  —  1  re- 


80 


PEXRUDDOCKE, 


spected  tliat,  you  sec ;  and  he  was  amus- 
ing, particularly  when  lie  was  in  a  rage. 
He  was  very  often  in  a  rasje  with  me ;  and 
vet  I  know  lie  liked  me  better  than  all  the 
other  !j;irls." 

'•  You  weren't  behind  the  door,  Liz,  when 
a  good  opinion  of  yourself  was  served  out," 
laughed  John,  shaking  his  head. 

"  1  don't  know  abuut  that,  dad.  I  only 
say  what  is  true." 

"  That  is  right,"  muttered  Humphrey. 
"  I  hate  mock  modesty." 

"  You  took  to  learning,  then,  after  all, 
Elizabelh,  more  kindly  than  you  thought 
you  should,"  I  said. 

"  Yes  :  I  liked  some  things.  I  liked  his- 
tor}'.  Cousin  O.-^mund  ;  you  were  quite 
riuht,  and  I  didn't  mind  French  and  mathe- 
matics. I  hated  music,  —  in  I'act,  I  never 
did  any  thing,  and  gave  it  up  at  last.  They 
saw  it  was  no  use." 

"  Ah !  that  was  a  i:)ity,  lass,"  said  her 
father.  "  I  like  to  hear  a  woman  play  a 
choone.  Your  poor  mother  could  play  any 
choone  almost  1  asked  for,  —  beautiful  it 
was  !  " 

"  Well,  dear  dad,"  cried  the  girl,  lean- 
ing over  towards  him,  and  putting  both 
bands  caressingly  round  the  arm  that  was 
near  her,  "  if  it  is  to  please  you,  I'll  try 
again;  but  I've  no  talent,  —  I  shall  never 
play  fit  to  listen  to.  You  can't  make  me 
an  accomjjlished  woman,  like  mother, 
dad." 

"  Try  and  be  as  good  a  one,  my  Liz,  and 
I  shall  be  satisfied."  John  sighed,  and 
kissed  her  forehead.  And  Humphrey,  who 
never  wasted  his  powder,  here  fired  a  shot 
opportunely  in  another  direction,  which  di- 
verted the  thoughts  of  fiither  and  child  from 
sorrowful  memories. 

'•  Can  you  do  a  rule-of-three  sum  in  your 
bead,  j\Iiss  Lizzie  ?  If  twelve  hogsheads 
of  hwv  cost "  — 

•'  Oh !  please,  don't.  Cousin  Humphrey. 
This  is  holiday-time,  remember." 

"  There  is  no  holiday  from  pounds,  shil- 
lings, and  pence,  I  am  sOrry  to  say,  in  this 
■world.  As  you  say  you  cannot  be  an  ac- 
com[)lished  woman,  you  must  be  a  woman 
of  business,  Elizabeth." 

"  No,  I  mean  to  be  a  woman  of  pleas- 
ure." 

This  innocent  speech  nearly  choked  me 
in  the  effort  not  to  laugh,  which  I  would 
not  have  done  for  tlu;  world.  I  did  not 
dare  look  at  the  two  old  men ;  but  John 
said  at  once,  with  the  most  perfect  simpli- 
city, — 

"  You  mustn't  use  that  expression,  Liz- 
zie. It  means  something  bad,  —  something 
quite  diflferent  from  what  you  wanted  to 
say,  my  lass  —  remember  that." 

Elizabeth  stared  at  her  father,  and  her 


cheek  flushed ;  and  then  she  looked  down 
at  the  doyley,  and  presently  up  into  my 
face,  startled,  angry,  and  curious. 

Humphrey  came  again  to  the  rescue. 

"  About  this  tutor,  Mr.  Osmund,  whom 
you  spoke  to  John  of  this  morning,  what 
age  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you,  —  past 
forty,  nearer  fifty,  perhaps.  He  is  a  sort 
of  man  whose  age  one  never  thinks  about. 
One  respects  him  like  a  father,  —  one  loves 
him  like  a  boy." 

"  Was  he  your  tutor,  Cousin  Osmund  ?  " 
asked  Elizabeth  eagerly.  "  And  did  you 
i-eally  love  him  V  " 

'•  Indeed  I  did  ;  and  if  you  are  lucky 
enough  to  get  him,  Elizabeth,  so  will 
you." 

"  The  only  demur  in  my  mind,"  said 
Humphrey,  ''  is  whether  little  miss  here 
may  not  be  at  a  disadvantage,  brought  up 
entirely  among  elderly  men.  Now,  as 
Mrs.  Nonsuch's  Academy  at  Chelsea,  hard 
by"  — 

"  No,  dear  Cousin  Humphrey,  no.  Don't 
persuade  dad  to  send  me  there.  I  know  I 
should  hate  it  worse  than  Pla9ant's.  Let 
me  have  Osmund's  tutor.  I  can  get  on  so 
much  better  with  a  man." 

"  All,  that's  where  it  is  1 "  said  John, 
shaking  his  head,  yet  unable  to  repress  a 
fond  smile  at  his  daughter.  "  You  want  to 
be  more  feminine,  Liz  " 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  dad,"  replied  Eliazbeth, 
looking  quite  penitent  ;  "  but  going  to  a 
girls'  academy  won't  make  me  any  better. 
On  the  contrary,  in  my  disgust  at  all  their 
nasty,  petty  ways,  I  —  I'm  afraid  I  try  to 
be  as  little  like  a  girl  as  I  (!an." 

We  all  laughed ;  and  Humphrey  pro- 
posed that  we  should  take  a  turn  on  the 
mall,  and  have  a  pipe.  Elizabeth  fetched 
her  hat ;  the  two  elders  strolled  on,  I  and 
my  young  cousin  followed. 

'•  This  is  to  be  your  home,  now,  then  ?  " 
I  said  to  her. 

"  Yes :  Cousin  Humphrey  wishes  us  to 
live  with  him  ;  and,  if  we  we  to  be  in  town, 
I  had  sooner  it  was  here  than  anywhere. 
I  mean  to  have  a  boat,  and  row  in  the  sum- 
mer." 

"  Prav  can  you  seiv  as  well  as  row,  Eliza- 
beth ?  "" 

"  Sew  ?  Well,  I  can  put  on  a  button,  or 
cobble  up  my  glove.  I  can't  do  much  be- 
yond that." 

I  said  nothing ;  and,  after  a  minute's 
pause,  she  went  on,  — 

"  I  know  what  you're  thinking,  —  what 
a  useless  creature  I  shall  be  when  I  grow* 
up !      Do   you    think   people   can   change 
themselves?     I  know  I  would  if  I  could." 

"Would  you?  Why?  You  wouldn't 
be  ha])pier  than  you  are,  — very  independ- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


81 


cnt,  and  indifferent  to  what  people  think  ; 
which  is  the  next  thing  to  contentment,  I 
fancy." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  said  she,  fixing  her 
clear  eyes  upon  me  for  a  second,  "  I  am  not 
at  all  indifferent  to  what  some  people  think 
of  me.  I  know  dad  is  right,  —  men  hate  a 
mannish  woman." 

'"  Dad  did  not  say  that." 

"  Oh  !  but  he  meant  it,  —  meant  it  with- 
out knowing  it:  do  you  understand?  I 
know  dear  old  dad's  thoughts  better  than 
lie  does  himself;  and  I  am  afraid  he  is 
right.  Of  course  no  man  ever  really  loved 
tiiat  glorious,  terrible  old  queen,  my  name- 
sake."      , 

"  Come,  you  have  been  studying  history, 
I  see,  though  not  the  latest  lights,  or  your 
entliu-iiasm  would  not  permit  you  to  use  the 
word  '  terrible.'  After  all,  if  you  come  to 
'  what  people  think,'  though  no  one  indi- 
vidual may  have  loved  her,  the  country  at 
large  certainly  did." 

"  I  should  not  care  about  the  country  at 
large.  I  cai-e  for  individuals  Cousin 
Osmund,  I  want  to  ask  you  about  your 
life.  You  have  made  me  tell  you  all  about 
mine,  and  you  have  told  me  nothing  in  re- 
turn." 

'•  There  is  very  little  to  tell,  —  military 
duty,  and  London  society  —  hot  field-days, 
and  hotter  balls  at  night,  —  that  is  the  sort 
of  work  I  have  been  at  for  some  months 
past." 

"  Then  you  haven't  been  fighting  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear  child  :  there's  nobody  to 
fight." 

"  Don't  call  me  '  child  ; '  I  am  very  near- 
ly sixteen.  How  can  men  in  the  army 
distinguish  themselves  now  ?  " 

"Ah!  that  is  the  question.  If  there,  is 
fighting  in  India,  by  andby,  when  I  have 
got  my  company,  I  shall  exchange  out 
there ;  till  then,  there  is  only  one  thing  to 
be  done." 

"  AVhat  is  that  ?  " 

"  My  duty.  There  isn't  much  distinc- 
tion to  be  gained  in  it :  but  Mr.  Francis 
will  tell  you  it  pays  in  the  Ion':;  run  :  and  I 

1     1  •  ^  •  T    '  • 

uulieve  nun.  1  am  not  going  to  prose, 
however.  You're  sharp  enough  to  know 
all  that,  and  much  more.  I  say,  what  a 
brick  old  Cousin  Humphrey  is  !  I  am  still 
just  a  little  afraid  of  him  ;  but  I  feel  that  I 
couhl  really  love  him  if  I  knew  him  better." 

"  Afraid  ?  /'?n  not  a  bit  afraid  of  him. 
He'll  do  any  thing  I  ask  him.  Cousin  Os- 
mund, you  must  love  him  ;  for  he  likes  you 
—  I  heard  him  say  so." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it;  but  he  knows  nothing 
of  me.  And  '  —  I  stopped  short.  I  was 
goin^f  to  allude  to  the  great  family  division, 
in  wliirh  Humphrey  had  taken  so  prominent 
a  part ;  but  it  was  to  me  so  painful  and  hu- 1 
6 


miliating  a  subject  that  I  could  not  Itring 
myself  to  speak  of  it,  even  in  vague  terms, 
to  Elizabeth.  She  was  too  acute,  I  think, 
not  to  guess  the  cause  of  my  sudden  silence. 
She  said  nothing;  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  John  and  Hum;)hrey  approached, 
the  former  leaning  heavily  on  the  latter 
for  support.  I  could  not  see  his  face  ;  but  I 
felt  sure,  from  the  attitude,  he  was  suffer- 
ing. Elizabeth  flew  to  the  other  side  of 
her  father. 

"  John  has  had  one  of  his  attacks,"  said 
Humphrey,  "  and  I  must  get  him  back  to 
the  house." 

Without  saying  a  word,  Elizabeth 
dashed  across  the  road,  regardless  of  a 
hansom  which  was  coming  down  on  her  at 
the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an  hour.  AVe  were 
some  fifty  yards  from  the  house  ;  but,  in  less 
time  almost  than  it  takes  to  tell,  the  girl 
had  flown  there  and  back,  bearing  a  phial 
in  her  hand.  We  had,  as  yet,  advanced 
only  a  few  paces  ;  our  progress  was  slow, 
the  suffering  man,  supported  by  Humphrey 
and  me,  being  unable  to  walk  but  with 
difficulty.  Elizabeth  put  the  phial  to  his 
lips :  it  was  evident  that  she  was  used  to 
these  attacks,  and  knew  how  they  were  to 
be  treated.  John  stood  still,  breathed 
once  or  twice  heavily,  then  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  — 

"  Thank'ee,  lassie,  I  can  get  on  now." 

The  girl's  tender  solicitude  was  touch- 
ing. I,  of  course,  resigned  my  place  at  her 
father's  side  to  her  ;  thenceforward  she  had 
not  a  thought  for  anybody  else.  During 
the  whole  way  home  she  did  not  utter  a 
word  ;  but  one  hand  held  his,  while  the 
other  was  around  his  arm.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  his  fiice  ;  and  he  looked  down 
every  now  and  then  at  her,  and  smiled. 

When  we  reached  the  house,  as  I  could 
be  of  no  more  use,  I  felt  it  was  best  to  Ijid 
Humphi'ey  good-night.  He  took  my  hand, 
—  we  were  standing  on  the  doorstep,  tiie 
others  had  gone  in,  —  and  he  murmured, 
between  compressed  lips,  — 

"  A  bad  case,  I  fear,  Osmund  Penrud- 
docke.  He  has  a  fatal  disease,  and  he 
knows  it.  He  mkiht  have  lingered  for 
years;  but  anxiety  and  disappointment  are 
hastening  the  end." 

I  turned  away,  silent  and  saddened. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Three  days  later,  Mr.  Francis  answered 
my  letter  in  person.  He  walked  into  my 
room,  early  in  the  morning,  having  just 
landed  lr(;m  the  Antwerp  boat. 

"  I  was  coming  home,  at  any  rate  ;  and 
your  proposition  only   determined    ine   to 


82 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


return  at  once.  You  nnderstanrl,  Osmund, 
that  loving  you  as  I  do,  and  knoiving  all  I 
do,  there  is  nothing  I  should  like  better 
than  to  be  of  use  to  this  girl,  if  I  can.  I 
am  interested  about  her  and  her  father; 
and  if  I  think  I  can  be  of  service  to  them, 
depend  on  it  I  v?ill  not  refuse.  But  I  must 
see  her  first.  You  know  my  views  on  tiiis 
subject :  I  must  have  a  talk  with  the  child 
before  I  decide." 

The  result  of  his  visit  to  Cheyne  Walk 
that  afternoon  may  be  told  in  a  few  words. 
My  three  cousins,  after  their  several  fash- 
ions, were  fovorablj'  impressed  by  Mr. 
Francis  ;  and  he  liked  what  he  saw  of  them 
enough  to  accede  to  Humphrey's  proposi- 
tion, that  he  should  enter  the  fxmily  as 
Elizabeth's  tutor,  on  a  month's  trial. 
Humphrey  named  the  salary,  which  was  a 
liberal  one,  and  made  every  arrangement : 
John  left  it  all  to  him.  Mr.  Francis,  as  he 
told  me,  was  interested  in  Elizabeth,  but 
did  not  feel  at  all  sure  that  she  had  not 
been  so  much  spoilt  as  to  render  her  quite 
unmanageable.  "  I  am  well  pleased, 
therefore,  that  there  should  be  a  probation- 
ary trial  on  both  sides.  If  the  girl  takes  to 
me  —  if  I  feel  that  I  can  gain  in  time  an 
influence  over  her,  and  that  the  two  old 
men's  fondness  does  not  entirely  neutralize 
any  good  results  I  may  hope  to  effect,  then 
I  will  stay  :  not  otherwise." 

All  that  autumn,  John's  health  was 
gradually  failing.  He  had  frequent  attacks 
similar  to  the  one  I  had  witnessed  ;  and 
each  one  seemed  to  leave  him  more  feeble 
than  before.  The  decline  of  a  strono;  man, 
—  the  falling  away  of  the  massive  lines, 
the  loss  of  strength  in  the  once  powerful 
limbs — is  a  sad  spectacle.  To  watch  the 
gradual  decay  of  any  living  thing  is  pain- 
ful ;  doubly  so  of  a  human  being,  not  long 
past  the  prime  of  life,  a  grand  oak-like 
frame,  eminently  fitted  for  its  work.  We 
feel  as  if  these  giants  auiong  men  ought  to 
lie  down  to  their  rest  in  the  plentitude  of 
stren'j;tli,  or  else  in  the  ripe  fulness  of  age, 
not  wither  branch  by  branch,  as  it  were, 
and  linger  on  the  bed  of  sickness,  which  is 
no  unfitting  prelude  to  the  last  great 
change  in  weaker  mortals.  And  yet  how 
"  of  the  eartii,  earthy  "  is  all  this  !  Little 
recks  John  now  that  he  stood  six-foot  two 
upon  this  earth,  where  he  had  lived  but 
fifty-eight  years.  And  he  would  not  have 
given  up  those  last  months  of  suffering,  if 
he  could.  They  were  sweetened  to  him  by 
the  knowledge  that  his  child  was  well  and 
wisely  cared  for. 

But  it  did  not  appear  to  me  that  Eliza- 
beth herself,  though  full  of  solicitude  for 
her  "  dad,"  had  any  perception  of  his  real 
condition.  Humphrey  and  Mr.  Francis, 
howevei",  were  both  fully  aware  of  it. 


I  used  to  walk  down  to  Chelsea  three  or 
four  times  a  week,  and  generally  staid  to 
dinner.  Before  the  month  was  out,  Mr. 
Francis  and  Elizabeth  Avere  staunch  friends. 
He  told  me  that  he  found  no  difficulty 
whatever  in  making  her  work,  nor  in  exact- 
ing implicit  obedience  from  his  pupil. 
Though  fear  was  foreign  to  her  nature,  she 
mij,ht — for  want  of  a  better  term  —  be 
said  to  be  afraid  of  her  tutor.  Certainly 
she  stood  in  far  greater  awe  of  the  gentle- 
voiced  Francis  than  she  did  of  sharp,  taci- 
turn old  Humphrey.  For  her  father  she 
had  the  tenderest  love ;  for  her  guardian- 
cousin,  a  strong  affection,  in  whicii  grati- 
tude, and  the  supremacy  which  a  young 
creature  sometimes  feels  she  possesses  over 
an  olil  man,  formed  part;  but  to  Mr. 
Francis  she  looked  up  with  the  admiration 
which  force  of  intellect  and  quiet  strength 
combined  were  sure  to  inspire  in  a  girl 
peculiarly  constituted  like  Elizabeth,  Far 
from  rendering  her  more  masculine,  in 
manner  and  freedom  of  speech  at  least,  I 
observed  a  gradual  softening  in  her  from 
the  beginning  of  Mr.  Francis's  tutorship. 
Not  that  she  ever  could  become  like  most 
other  girls  of  her  age,  nor  would  Mr. 
Francis  have  wished  it ;  he  had  too  much 
respect  for  individuality  to  have  sought  to 
destroy  it  in  his  pupil.  But  that  change 
which  the  best  kind  of  education  —  con- 
tact with  a  noble,  cultivated  mind  —  pro- 
duces, began  to  be  apparent.  Francis  was 
every  inch  a  man  ;  and  he  was  gentle  as  a 
child  :  the  influence  of  his  manner  made 
itself  felt  on  Elizabeth.  She  was  as  in- 
independent  in  her  thoughts  and  opinions, 
as  averse  from  feminine  employments,  as 
ever  ;  but  she  was  less  brusk,  much  more 
silent  and  reflective  at  times  ;  and  though, 
at  others,  her  spirits  were  still  high,  she 
was  less  vehement  and  impatient  in  her 
discussion. 

I  had  always  liked  Elizabeth,  and,  owing 
to  our  constant  intercourse  at  this  time,  I 
became  really  fond  of  my  cousin.  She 
interested  and  entertained  me  beyond 
measure :  I  found  true  pleasure  in  the 
society  of  this  perfect  child  of  nature,  after 
ihe  conventionalities  of  fashionable  life  ; 
but  the  idea  of  love  in  connection  with  hL-r, 
I  can  honestly  say,  never  so  much  as  oc- 
curred to  me.  I  remember  often  contrast- 
ing her  mentally  with  Evelyn  (her  cousin 
as  well  as  mine),  and  wondering  how  any 
two  creatures  cast  in  the  same  mould,  of  the 
same  sex,  of  nearly  the  same  age,  could  be 
so  utterly  different.  There  was  not  one 
point  of  similarity  :  they  had  scarcely  a 
thought  or  a  feeling  in  common.  And  I 
used  to  say  to  myself,  "  My  Evelyn  is  of  the 
stuff  that  wives  should  be  made,  —  sweet, 
lovable,   womanly ;    Elizabeth  will   be    a 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


83 


man's  hon  camarade  tlirouc^h  life,  and  never 
re(]nirc  any  thing  more." 

llow  mistaken  I  was  !  Imt  I  did  not  know 
it  then  ;  I  little  gnessed  the  mischief  that 
my  eonstant  presence  was  working.  Oth- 
ers saw  it,  however,  and,  strange  to  say 
(proving  how  the  shrewdest  and  wisest 
may  be  deceived),  entirely  misconstrued 
the  real  staie  of  the  ease.  I  can  now  look 
back  upon  the  circumstances  dispassion- 
atel}' ;  and  this  will,  perhaps,  be  the  fittest 
place  to  relate  what  only  came  to  my 
knowledge  some  months  after  the  time  to 
which  I  am  referring. 

That  Humphrey  should  believe  that  my 
attachment  to  Elizabeth  was  of  more  th  in 
a  cousinly  nature  was  easily  to  be  under- 
stood. In  the  Hrst  place,  he  knew  notiiing 
on  earth  at)out  love ;  he  had  got  to  hke  me, 
to  think  well  of  me,  to  waive  his  |n-cjii(lices 
against  my  birth,  and  to  entertain,  with  a 
certain  satisfaction,  the  idea  of  a  union  be- 
tween the  two  branches  of  the  family. 
There  was  not  much  of  reparation  in  it  to 
the  wronged  iiciress,  of  course  ;  for  he  knew 
exactly  the  limits  of  my  income  ;  but  he 
also  was  aware  that  I  had  refused  to  accept 
any  portion  of  the  Penruddocke  moneij  left  to 
me  hij  inij  father, —  a  fact  to  winch  he  more 
than  once  referred  with  pleasure  in  conver- 
sation wida  me.  And  as  to  Elizabeth,  she 
would  inherit;  all  his  savings,  which  were 
considerable,  so  that  she  would  not  want 
for  money. 

Very  soon  after  John's  first  taking  up 
his  residence  at  Humphrey's,  it  seems  that 
the  possibility  of  such  a  union  occurred  to 
both  the  cousins,  and  neither  was  inclined 
to  discourage  it.  I  was  very  young;  Eliz- 
abeth was  but  a  child.  It  might  end  in 
nothing  ;  but  if  we  became  seriouslj^  at- 
tached, did  not  the  prospect  hold  out  a  fair 
share  of  happiness  for  the  girl  ?  John 
knew  his  child  better  than  any  one  ;  he  saw 
more  than  any  one  saw  of  the  state  of  her 
heart.  Unhappily,  his  perceptions  were 
not  equally  acute  as  regarded  myself.  The 
two  old  cousins  often  talked  it  over,  I  believe, 
before  John's  death ;  and  they  agreed  that 
the  interest  I  had  shown  in  Elizabeth's  edu- 
cation from  the  first,  the  pleasure  I  evidently 
found  in  coming  to  the  house,  and  in  pass- 
ing hours  in  the  girl's  society,  and  that  of 
three  elderly  men,  all  indicated  a  nascent 
love,  which  it  only  required  time  to  de- 
velop. 

I'liat  Humphrey  and  John,  then,  should 
deceive  themselves  in  this  matter,  I  rejjcat, 
was  not  surprising  ;  but  that  ]\Ir.  Francis  — 
wise,  deep-sighted  Fi'ancis  —  should  have 
been  under  the  same  delusion,  is  still  an 
inexplicable  mystery  to  me.  Had  he  not 
been  so  deluded,  his  sense  of  dutj^,  which 
never  suffered  any  compromise,  would  have 


stopped  the  mischief  at  the  very  beginnino-. 
He  would  have  bidden  me  desist  from  inv 
frequent  visits,  and  not  trouble  the  peace 
of  that  house;  l)ut,  like  the  two  Penrud- 
dockes,  hope  blinded  him  to  the  truth. 
The  interest  he  felt  in  his  pupil  strength- 
ened <laily;  he  often  expressed  to  me  his 
amazement,  notonly  at  her  facility  in  learn- 
ing, but  at  the  vigor  of  her  intellect,  grasp- 
ing a  difficult  subject  in  all  its  details,  and 
often  bringing  acute  observation  to  bear  tm 
it.  Penetrated  as  he  was,  then,  with  ad- 
miration for  tlie  girl's  abilities,  and  with 
the  conviction  that  what  was  noble  in  her 
had  but  to  be  fostered  to  render  her  a  fine 
character,  he  hailed  the  signs  (as  he 
thought)  of  my  growing  attachment.  He 
looked  upon  my  love  for  Evelyn  as  a  boy- 
ish fancy  belonging  to  the  ])ast.  He  knew 
that  there  was  no  comnnmication  between 
us,  direct  or  indirect ;  he  knew  that  she 
had  not  a  farthing,  —  that  a  marriage  be- 
tween us,  under  existing  circumstances, 
would  be  absolute  penury,  which  Mrs. 
Hanileigh  would  never  hear  of.  And,  over 
and  above  all  this,  Evelyn  was  so  immeas- 
urably inferior,  in  his  eyes,  to  Elizabeth, 
that  he  regarded  the  transfer  of  my  affec- 
tions to  the  latter  as  a  natural  and  com- 
mendable infidelity.  Excellent  and  un- 
worldly man  as  he  was,  too,  the  flxct  that 
Elizabeth  would  have  a  very  comfortable 
fijrtune  could  not  be  left  out  of  cunsidei-a- 
tion  in  looking  at  my  iuture.  That  any 
tiiought,  any  hope,  beyond  this,  entered 
into  his  calculations,  I  will  not  affirm.  He 
had  my  welfare,  temporal  and  spiritual, 
warmly  at  heart,  as  I  knew  well ;  but  he 
was  too  wise  ever  to  press  religious  ques- 
tions upon  me,  lor  which  I  had  no  taste. 
It  was  liardly  possible,  in  their  close  daily 
communion,  but  that  points  connected  wiiii 
the  distinctive  dogmas  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  should  arise.  I  was  present  more 
than  once  when  Mr.  Francis  discussed 
these  in  a  large  and  liberal  spiiit.  He 
never  hesitated  to  admit  the  corru|)t  prac- 
tices which  had  grown  up  in  that  branch  of 
the  Catholic  Church.  "  But,"  as  I  heard 
him  once  express  it,  "  though  olu-  Mother 
may  have  faults,  we  believe  in  her  truth. 
Her  arms  are  ever  opened  to  us,  and  we 
cast  our  burdens  there.  There  are  men 
who  feel  strong  enough  to  bear  their  own 
burdens.  Our  Church  is  not  for  tlicin. 
They  may  belong  to  it  in  form,  but  their 
heart  is  not  in  it.  Only  those  who  feel  the 
need  of  self-renunciation  should  enter  its 
doors." 

Tlie  prospect  of  conversion,  I  maintain, 
never  [(resented  itself  to  Francis's  mind. 
He  had  always  avoided  such  ([uestions  at 
Beaumanoir,  and  it  was  only  when  una- 
voidably driven  to  discuss  them  with  Eliz- 


84 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


abetb  that  he  did  so ;  but  I  do  think  it  pos- 
sible that  the  joyful  hope  of  seeiiicr  ns  both 
brought  by  conviction  to  embrace  bis  faith 
mai)  have  occurred  to  him.  I  emphasize 
this  wonl,  for  I  i'eel  uo  certainty  about  it. 
But  in  pondering  over  my  dear  old  tutor's 
delusion  about  me,  long  afterwards,  I  found 
some  ground  for  the  assumption  that  he 
had  indulged  in  such  a  day-dream. 

One  evening  an  incident  occurred  which 
exercised  me  much  for  some  days.  I  had 
heard  from  ^Madame  d'Arnheim  that  morn- 
ing ;  she  was  alone,  staying  with  her  friend, 
the  Grand-Duchess  of  Bodensee,  to  whom 
she  had  been  "  Hofdame  "  before  her  mar- 
riage ;  and  d'Arnheim  was  gone  to  Vienna 
and  IIunLrarv,  where  fixmilv  business  would 
detain  him  some  little  time.  They  were 
not  to  return  to  England  till  December. 

I  was  with  a  brother-oflicer  at  the  Strand 
Theatre,  when  our  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  singularly  handsome  woman  in  a 
siage-box.  She  was  evidently  not  alone, 
but  lier  companion  remained  at  the  back 
of  the  box  the  whole  night.  At  the  first 
move  she  made  to  leave  the  theatre,  my 
friend  rushed  from  the  stalls,  and  followed 
her.  I  was  only  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  man's  face  who  was  with  the  lady, 
as  they  stepped  into  a  bi'ougham,  and  drove 
off.     It  was  D'Arnheim. 

None  of  the  corps  diplomntique  whom  I 
asked  knew  of  his  being  in  London  ;  and,  as 
it  was  no  concern  of  mine,  I  remained  si- 
lent as  to  having  seen  him.  My  brother- 
ofiicer,  however,  whose  admiration  for  and 
curiosity  respecting  the  lady  were  more 
ardent  than  mine,  took  some  pains  to  dis- 
cover who  she  was.  lie  saw  her,  the  week 
following,  in  a  brougham;  jumped  into  a 
lianson,  and  followed  her  to  Emanuel's. 

One  of  the  shopmen  he  knew  informed 
him  she  was  an  Hungarian  countess,  over  in 
England  for  a  few  days  only.  A  gentle- 
man with  her  had  bought  a  diamond 
bracelet,  into  which  she  had  now  brought 
bis  photograph  to  be  inserted.  I  could  not 
join  in  my  friend's  laui:h  when  he  told 
me  he  had  seen  it,  and  that  it  was  D'Arn- 
heim'?. His  wife  was  not  one  of  the  compla- 
cent kind,  who  treat  these  things  lightly. 
She  suH'ered  enough  as  it  was.  If  it  should 
come  to  her  knowledge  that  her  husband 
had  not  only  lied  to  her,  but  had  outraged 
all  decency  in  coming  over  to  England 
with  this  woman  at  the  time  when  his  wile 
believed  him  to  be  in  Vienna,  it  would  be 
a  bitter  aggravation  to  her  troubles. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  autumn  that 
I  had  a  conversation  with  our  old  butler, 
wdiich  first  opened  my  eyes  to  the  extent 
to  which  idle  gossip  had  been  carried  about 
me. 

Sparshott  had  come  to  London,  with  my 


mother's  leave,  for  a  day,  upon  business, 
and  Avould  not  return  to  Beaumanoir  with- 
out seeing  me.  After  the  conventional 
inquiries  ihv  my  "nearest  relatives,  I  said,  — 

"  You  gave  my  letter  to  Miss  Evelyn 
last  sprinir,  that  I  sent  under  cover  to  you, 
Sparshott"?  " 

"Yes,  ]\Ir.  Osmund;  but  you  mustn't 
send  me  no  more.  I  don't  know  as  I  was 
altocrether  right, —  unbeknownst  to  her 
mother." 

"  All  right.  Are  they  at  Beaumanoir 
now  ?  " 

"  Xo :  they  went  home  a  fortnight  ago. 
Miss  Evelyn's  that  growed  you  wouldn't 
know  her, — a  fine  young  lady  as  ever  I 
saw." 

"  Is  my  name  ever  mentioned  at  home, 
Sparshott  V  " 

"  Y  —  yes,  Mr.  Osmund  ;  sometimes." 

"  Do  my  mother  and  ]Mrs.  Ilamleigh 
ever  talk  about  me  ?  " 

"  Y^es,"  returned  the  old  man,  after  a 
little  hesitation.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the 
cornice  and  at  the  window-curtains,  — 
anywhere  but  into  my  face. 

"  Well,  Sparshott  ?  Come,  out  with  it, 
—  what  do  they  say  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Osmund,  I've  known  you  since 
vou  was  in  arms.  If  I  miGrht  give  vou  a 
bit  of  advice,"  — 

"  Go  ahead." 

"  It  is  that  you  should  come  home,  if  you 
can,  for  a  bit.  I  know  that  you  and  my 
lady  ain't  altogether  just  as  you  might  be 
together ;  but,  after  your  running  away  that 
time,  Mr.  Osmund,  if  my  lady  did  say 
any  thing  hard,  why,  it's  best  to  let  by- 
gones be  by-gones.  if  you  never  go  near 
her,  no  wonder  my  lady  believes  any  bad 
she  hears  of  you." 

"  Some  by-gones  can't  be  by-gones  ;  but 
what  makes  you  say  that  my  mother  be- 
lieves '  any  bad  '  of  me  ?  "  • 

He  hesitated. 

"  I  don"t  know  as  I  ought  to.  Servants 
has  no  business,  —  and  besides  it's  more 
Irom  putting  two  and  two  together.  Mrs. 
Hamleigh  has  dropped  things,  now  and 
then,  as  I  couldn't  help  thinking  was 
meant  for  you." 

'•  What  did  she  say  ?  Try  to  remem- 
ber, —  there's  a  good  old  chap." 

"  I  come  into  the  dining-room  one  morn- 
ing, last  July,  just  after  the  letter-bag  was 
opened.  My  lady  and  Mrs.  Hamleigh  was 
alone.  ]\Irs.  Hamleigh  was  I'eadinsr  a  let- 
ter  from,  —  I  mind  me  the  name,  cause  I 
knew  it  once, —  Mrs.  Hawksley.  There 
was  sometiiing  about  a  '  scandalous  connec- 
tion '  and  '  a  gambling  brawl ; '  and  then 
Mrs.  Hamleigh  laid  down  the  letter,  and 
said,  '  What  awful  depravity  in  one  so 
young  1 '     I  don't  know  as   I   should  have 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


85 


tliou2;lit   more   of  it,  but  for   seeing  Miss 
Evelyn  crying  that  afternoon." 

"  You  saw  her  crying  ?  Yes,  —  well  ? 
—  go  on."  * 

''  That  was  on  Saturday  :  the  next  flay, 
curious  enough,  we  had  '  the  Prodigal  Son  ' 
in  church,  for  second  lesson.  I  saw  the 
tenrs  a-rolling  down  Miss  Evelyn's  face, 
under  her  veil.  I  made  no  doubt  then, 
Mr.  Osmund,  as  what  I'd  heard  related  to 
you." 

Nor  had  I  any  doubt,  though  I  did  not 
tell  Sparshott  so.  1  asked  whether  Miss 
Hamieigh's  spirits  had  seemed  affected 
after  this. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Osmund.  She  is  not  like  the 
same  young  lady  she  was  in  the  spring,  — 
seems  so  dull  and  quiet  like.  It's  that 
makes  me  say  you  should  come  home  for  a 
bit  :   it'd  do  them  all  good,  that  it  would." 

"  I  can't,  Sparshott :  it  is  no  use  talking 
of  it." 

"  Well,  it's  a  pity,  Mr.  Osmund  :  that's  all 
I  can  say.  A  young  gentleman  may  get 
into  a  scrape,  and  no  great  harm  perhaps; 
but  if  he  bides  away,  and  tales  get  exagger- 
ated, why,  it  plays  the  very  deuce  with  him, 
that's  what  I  say." 

"  If  they  choose  to  believe  evil  of  me,  they 
must ;  but,  by  Jove  !  it  is  too  bad,  without 
one  ])article  of  proof  !  " 

The  old  man  and  I  had  a  good  deal  more 
conversation  ;  but  the  gist  of  it  is  here. 

I  was  much  annoyed  ;  and  the  worst  of 
it  was,  I  did  not  see  well  what  I  could  do. 
To  write  to  my  mother,  and  betray  what 
I  had  heard,  was  impossible.  However 
darkly  I  might  veil  the  communication,  she 
could  not  iail  to  detect  that  it  had  reached 
me  through  Sparshott ;  aud  I  knew  he  would 
be  discharged  at  once.  The  tittle-tattle  of 
servants  was  one  of  those  things  she  always 
said,  in  her  mild  way,  she  never  would  tol- 
erate. Moreover,  no  good  would  be  done. 
She  would  deny  that  the  old  butler's  infer- 
ences from  what  he  had  picked  up  were 
correct ;  or  else  she  would  decline  discuss- 
ing the  point  at  all,  and  show  me,  by  her 
angelic  tone  of  toleration  and  maternal  sor- 
row, that  she  remained  unshaken  in  her  be- 
lief about  me,  whatever  that  might  be.  It 
was  as  if  I  had  received  the  letter,  I  felt 
so  sure  what  I  might  expect. 

At  the  end  of  three  days,  I  suddenly  made 
up  my  mind  what  I  would  do.  Though  I 
had  vowed  not  to  enter  the  doors  of  Beau- 
manoir  again,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
my  running  down  to  Mrs.  Hamieigh's  in  the 
New  Forest ;  except  the  fact  that  I  should 
be  ])ariiculiirly  unwelcome  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house.  That,  however,  was  a  second- 
ary consideration.  Taken  unawares,  Mrs. 
Hainlei.rh,  I  thought,  could  lianlly  prevent 
my  seeing  Evelyn.    One  word  with  her  was 


all  I  wanted.  If  the  mother  attacked  me, 
so  much  the  better.  I  asked  for  nothing 
but  to  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  any 
anonymous  slander  against  my  character. 

I  obtained  leave  from  parade  the  follow- 
ing day,  and  left  Waterloo  by  the  eight, 
A  M.,  train  for  the  New  Forest. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

It  was  a  gokh  i  autumn  morning.  The 
sunset  of  the  year,  as  of  the  day,  illuminates 
all  objects  in  nature  with  a  richer  and  more 
mellow  li2;ht.  The  burninor  brilliancy  of 
noon  among  the  flagrant  greens  of  midsum- 
mer is  harsh  and  monotonous  ;  the  evening 
glory,  tremulous  through  the  mist  of  the 
gathering  annual  twilight,  plays  with  infi- 
nite variety  through  the  thinned  silver 
branches  of  the  beech,  the  brown,  burnt-up 
ferns  at  its  feet,  the  silent  rain  of  yellow 
leaves,  falling  without  a  flutter  through  the 
still,  blue,  misty  air. 

My  three-miles  walk  through  the  forest, 
from  the  station,  I  keenly  enjoyed,  though — 
it  seems  a  contradiction  —  my  thoughts 
were  engrossed  with  matters  foreign  to  the 
silvan  scene.  But,  ardent  lover  as  I  always 
was  of  the  country,  after  my  long  im- 
prisonment in  London,  the  perfect  stillness, 
unbroken  save  by  a  woodpeckei',  the  sweet 
smell  of  fallen  leaves,  the  divine  sense  of 
liberty  and  repose  in  those  deep  woodland 
hollows,  winding  away  to  right  and  left  of 
the  main  road,  filled  me,  almost  uncon- 
sciously, with  a  delight  to  which  I  had  long 
been  a  stranger. 

The  village  clock  was  striking  twelve  as 
I  lifted  the  latch  of  Mrs.  Hamieigh's  gate, 
and  walked  up  the  gravel  circle  to  tlie  door, 
which,  like  many  of  the  doors  in  this  prim- 
itive district,  was  wide  open.  There  stood 
the  old  oak  up  which  I  had  climbed  that 
memorable  night,  and,  over  against  it,  my 
darling's  window,  with  its  box  of  mignon- 
ette, now  running  to  seed,  on  the  ledge, 
and  embowered  by  the  scarlet  leaves  of  the 
Virginian  creeper  which  covered  this  side 
of  tlie  cottage,  and  even  sent  its  tendrils 
over  the  rich  brown  tiles  of  the  olil  roof. 

I  hesitated  whether  to  enter  unannounced, 
but  I  decided  against  this  course.  A 
woman  who  was  a  stranger  to  me  answered 
the  bell ;  and,  on  my  incjuiring  for  Mrs. 
Ilamleigh,  said  she  believed  her  mistress 
was  at  home.  I  felt  my  heart  come  into 
my  mouth  as  I  followed  her.  I  believe  it 
is  a  nustake  to  think  that  men  are  not,  mor- 
ally, as  nervous  as  women,  very  (jften.  I 
was  going  to  sec  my  darling  at  last,  and  I 
never  doubted  how  her  heart  would  meet 
me,  even  if  her  manner  should  be  constrain- 


86 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


eil  ;  1>nt  T  must  also  see  lier  mother;  and 
how  much  miijlit  depend  upon  this  inter- 
view !  I  was  in  some  measure  on  my  own 
deience  (never  a  very  airreeable  position). 
I  should  probably  have  to  listen  to  a  jxood 
deal  tliat  would  try  my  patience  ;  and  the 
■worst  of  it  was,  in  one  direction,  my  tongue 
■was  tied. 

The  maid  took  my  name,  and  I  was  shown 
into  the  (h'awini:j-room.  It  was  empty,  and 
I  was  left,  alone  here  for  at  least  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  at  which  my  impatient  spirit 
chafed.  There  stood  her  open  piano,  with 
an  (I'mle  of  Heller's  on  the  desk  ;  there  her 
workbox,  with  tlie  neeille  in  the  piece  of 
muslin,  just  as  slie  had  left  it ;  on  another 
table,  lier  dear  little  s-arden-gloves  and  scis- 
sors,  with  some  heliotrope  and  a  rose  or 
two,  the  last  spoil  of  the  garden,  now  ahnost 
flowerless,  upon  which  the  wide-open  win- 
dow looked.  I  stole  a  rose,  and  did  not 
])ut  it  in  my  button-hole,  but  treasured  it 
next  to  my  heart ;  for  I  knew  my  darling's 
hand  had  plucked  it  this  very  morning.  I 
have  that  rose  still.  Its  cream-colored 
leaves  are  brown  and  shrivelled^  like  an  old 
man's  cheeks ;  no  vestige  of  scent  is  left ; 
but  it  lies  in  the  secret  drawer  of  my  desk, 
among  the  precious  relics  of  "  a  day  that 
is  dead." 

Among  the  books  upon  the  table  —  I 
turned  them  all  over,  a  volume  of  travels, 
horribly  instructive,  some  religious  novels, 
and  an  emasculated  edition  of  Shakspeare 
—  I  came,  to  my  surprise,  upon  a  miniature 
edition  of  Victor  Hugo's  poems.  Glancing 
at  the  title-page,  I  found  it  was  a  present  to 
Evelyn  "  de  la  part  de  sa  tres  aflectionnee 
Cecile  Gretry,"  —  a  French  music-mistress, 
who,  I  now  remembered,  came  here  every 
year  for  six  weeks,  in  her  summer  holidays, 
to  give  Evel}n  lessons.  Mrs.  Ilamleigh,  I 
should  think,  had  never  looked  into  the 
book.  Slu!  was  not  strong  at  poetry,  nor, 
indeed,  at  French  either.  But  Evelyn,  who 
had  had  a  Swiss  governess  at  one  time, 
spoke  it  with  facility ;  and,  as  I  turned  over 
the  pages,  I  saw  by  the  pencil-marks  that 
some,  at  least,  of  these  poems  had  been 
read,  and  i-e-read,  with  all  a  girl's  enthusi- 
astic admiration.  The  one  at  which  the 
book  seemed  naturally  to  open,  and  which 
was  more  scored,  be-crossed,  and  underlined 
than  any  other,  was  that  beginning,  "  Es- 
]>ere,  enfant,  demain."  It  was  new  to  me  ; 
and,  as  I  read  it,  it  seemed  as  if  I  were 
placing  my  hand  upon  the  heart  of  the  dear 
child,  and  could  understand  the  applica- 
tion which  she  had  given  to  that  second 
verse. 

"Nos  fautes,  mon  pauvrc   ange,  out  causees  nos 
soull'rances, 
Peutt'tre  qu'en  rcstant  bien  long  temps  a  genoux, 
Quand  il  aura  borii  toutes  lose  innocences, 
Paid  tous  les  repeutirs,  Dieu  linira  par  nous." 


I  had  just  finished  reading  this  for  the 
second  time,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Hamleigh  entered,  grinniu'j;  as  usual ; 
but  then  it  is  true  tlrat  she  could  not  open 
her  month  without  producing  this  effect, 
however  far  off  her  soul  was  from  merri- 
ment. It  was  partly  a  constructive,  partly 
a  spasmodic  peculiarity  ;  whenever  she  was 
nervous,  or  had  any  disagreeable  business 
on  hand,  she  grinned  worse  than  ever. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  see  me,  Mrs.  Ham- 
leigh ?  " 

'•I  —  I  am  indeed  surprised,  Osmund.  I 
had  no  idea  you  were  in  —  in  this  part  of 
the  country.  Have  you  —  come  from 
Beauraanolr  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  come  down  from  London,  ex- 
pressly to  see  you  and  Evelyn,  and  go  back 
again." 

The  boldness  of  this  avowal  seemed  to 
stagger  Mrs.  Hamleigh.  She  coughed,  and 
repeated,  after  her  wont,  — 

"  Back  again  ?  Oh  !  won't  you  sit  down  ? 
Perhaps  you  —  you  would  take  something — 
after  your  journey  ?  " 

"  Thank  you.  1*11  wait  till  you  go  to 
luncheon." 

"Luncheon?  I  —  I  a:n  sorry  to  say  I 
am  going  out  to  luncheon  —  an  engage- 
ment " —  Here  she  coughed  again,  and 
leant  one  haiul  upon  the  table. 

"  And  is  Evelyn  going  out  too  ?  "    g^ 

"  Oh  !  she  —  she  is  out.  I  am  sorry  — 
very  sorry." 

"  Come,  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  no  humbug. 
She  is  at  home,  and  you  don't  choose  me  to 
see  her.     Why  don't  you  say  so  honestly  ?  " 

"I  —  I  am  very  sorry,  Osmund.  I  had 
rather  not  say  anything  unpleasant.  It  is 
very  painful  to  me  —  very  painful  indeed. 
You  are  placing  me  in  a  most  —  most  dis- 
tressing position.  My  duty  to  my  child 
compels  me  to  treat  you  thus.  It  is  really 
unkinil  —  very  unkind  of  you  to  —  force 
yourself  u])on  us  in  this  way.  If  you  had 
any  right  feeling,  you  would  feel  that  — 
yes,  feel  that." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  I  have  done  to 
deserve  this  treatment  ?  "  I  asked,  with 
concentrated  anger. 

"  Deserve  this  treatment  ?  Oh !  you 
know  as  well  as  I.  Your  life  in  London  — 
I  —  I  really  blush  to  allude  to  it  —  has 
been  such  as  to  unfit  you,  even  in  your  own 
eyes,  from  returning  to  the  pure  atmosphere 
of  your  angelic  mother's  home  !  How  can 
you  expect  that  I  can  permit  Evelyn  to  be 
contaminated  by  your  society?  It  is  very, 
very  sad  I  Having  known  you  ever  since 
you  were  born,  I  "  — 

"  Stop,  Mrs.  Ilandeigh.  You  have  known 
me  ever  since  I  was  born  ;  and  you  never 
knew  me  tell  a  lie.  I  expect  you  to  be- 
lieve me,  therefore,  when   I  say  that  ray 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


87 


refiisina;  to  return  to  Bcaumanoir  has  been 
the  result  of  no  conduct  of  mine.  I  will 
never  set  foot  in  a  place  to  which  I  know 
my  brother  has  no  right.  That  is  the  long 
an<l  short  of  the  matter." 

'•  No  right  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  grip- 
ping the  table  nervously.  "  That  itself  is 
such  a  shocking,  wicked  thing  to  say,  after 
all  that  your  dear  mother  and  that  angel, 
Ray,  have  gone  through  !  But  indeed,  Os- 
mund, denial  is  useless.  We  know  too  much 
fH  of  your  life  —  poor  Lady  Rachel  and  I  — 
and  —  and  she  is  quite  agreed  with  me  that 
all  communication  between  you  and  Evelyn 
must  cease  henceforth  —  quite  agreed  — 
quite." 

"  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  I  insist  upon  knowing 
what  you  have  heard.  I  don't  leave  this 
house  until  you  tell  me." 

"Oh!  it  is  no  use  —  no  use  at  all."  Her 
voice  quivered,  and  her  hand  shook  ;  but  she 
replied  very  much  to  the  point.  "  Of  course 
you  would  deny  every  thing  ;  but  I  can  be 
firm  - —  verij  firm  when  occasion  ref[uires. 
It  is  impossible  that  I  should  let  Evelyn 
see  you,  Osmund.  I  am  very  sorry  —  very 
sorry,  indeed  ;  but  you  have  brought  it  on 
yourself" 

"  And  you  think  yourself  a  good  woman !  " 
I  cried,  beside  myself  with  rage.  "  You 
believe  any  vile  scandal  you  hear,  rather 
than  me,  when  I  give  you  my  sacred  woi'd 
it  is  a  lie  !  Should  I  come  down  here  to 
court  an  explanation,  if  I  had  not  a  clear 
conscience  ?  Your  conduct  is  cruel  and 
unchristianly,  —  yours  and  my  mother's 
too,  though  you  do  say  so  many  prayers  I  " 

"  So  many  prayers  ?  Ah  !  your  irreli- 
gious tone,  Osmund,  is  only  what  one  can 
expect.  But  it  is  too,  too  sad  to  hear  you 
speak  of  your  angel  mother  in  such  a  way  ! 
Such  an  example  as  she  has  set  you  ! " 

"  V/ell,  we  won't  talk  of  her.  But  just 
listen  to  me,  Mrs.  Hamleigh.  If  you  think 
you  are  going  to  separate  Evelyn  and  me 
forever,  you  are  mistaken.  You  can't  pre- 
vent our  meeting  when  she  comes  out.  I 
love  her,  and  she  loves  me  —  oh  !  it  is  no 
use  your  denying  it,  she  does,  and  she  will 
not  forget  me  —  I  know  that." 

'■  This  is  too  bad  ?  Really,  Osmund,  this 
is  quite  enough  to  show  how  demoralized 
you  have  become  !  There  was  a  time  when 
you  would  not  have  treated  a  parent's  au- 
thority with  such  contempt.  But  Evelyn, 
thank  (Jod  !  is  a  dutiful  child,  who  would 
never  fly  in  the  face  of  my  authority  — 
never !  " 

"  Evelyn  will  not  disobey  you  by  writing 
to  me,  I  know,  but  "  — 

"  Yes,  she  shall  —  she  shall  write  to  you," 
interrupted  the  agitated  lady;  "that  you 
may  have  no  delusions  ;  but,  understand, 
I  will  not  have  her  receive  any  letters  Irom 


you.    If  you  send  any,  they  will  be  returned 
unopened." 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  Like  Ravensworth, '  I 
bide  my  time,'  Mrs.  Hamleigh.  I  have  no 
fear  of  Evelyn's  tsrning  false  to  me  :  and 
when  she  goes  into  the  world,  no  one  can 
prevent  our  meeting.  I  am  glad  to  know 
exactly  how  I  stand  in  your  estimation  and 
mother's,  —  there's  nothing  like  frankness, 
depend  on  it." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry  you  came  down 
here,"  quavered  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  in  an  hy- 
sterical counter-treble.  "  It  is  most  un- 
pleasant to  me  to  —  to  —  to  "  — 

"  To  turn  out  of  the  house  the  son  of  the 
man  who  was  your  best  friend  1  Well,  I 
should  think  it  was.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
you  will  change  your  opinion  of  him,  and 
be  sorry.  Good-by  ;  "  and  seizing  my  hat 
and  stick,  I  strode  out,  without  another 
word. 

My  Parthian  shot,  I  flattered  myself,  had 
told.  She  had  been  under  heavy  obliga- 
tions, as.  I  knew,  to  my  father  ;  my  mother, 
though  she  liked  Mrs.  Hamleigh's  flattery, 
and  invited  her  to  Bcaumanoir  for  many 
weeks  at  a  time,  would  never  have  helped 
her  in  the  substantial  way  he  had  done  ; 
and  this  was  her  gratitude  !  His  favorite 
son  was  treated  thus,  in  order  to  curry  favor 
with  Lady  Rachel !  My  blood  boiled  within 
me.  How  I  had  been  able  to  answer  her  at 
all,  was  a  marvel  to  myself.  I  glanced  up 
at  Evelyn's  window,  as  I  reached  the  gate  ; 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  life  there,  —  not 
even  a  little  hand  waving  a  handkerchief 
to  me.  She  had  probably  been  kept  in 
ignorance  of  my  visit,  or  else  she  was  sent 
into  some  other  part  of  the  house.  That 
she  would  not  have  let  me  depart,  had  she 
known  it,  without  some  signal,  I  felt  sure. 

Full  of  bitterness  at  heart,  but  never 
daunted  in  my  determination  to  persevere, 
to  win  her,  sooner  or  later,  in  spite  of 
mother  and  every  one  else,  I  walked  back 
again  into  the  forest,  broke  my  fast  at  a 
little  road-side  inn,  and  caught  the  after- 
noon up-train,  which  landed  me  at  Water- 
loo by  six  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

I  PASSED  two  miserable  days.  I  felt  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  nmst  sit  down 
and  chafe  under  the  knowledge  of  misrepr*- 
sentation  and  injustice  ;  and  my  heart  was 
very  bitter  within  me.  On  the  third  morn- 
ing I  received  the  following  lines  from  Eve- 
lyn, which,  though  written  with  restraint, 
were  not  certainly  dictated  by  her  mother ; 
indeed,  I  think,  if  that  lady  had  seen  the 
letter  which    she   permitted  her  child,  ia 


88 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


tlic  plenitude  of  confidence,  to  send  me,  I 
should  never  have  received  it :  — 

"Dear  Osmund,  —  Mamma  tells  me 
you  have  been  down  here.  It  is  very  sad 
not  to  see  you  ;  but  our  meeting  just  now 
would  be  painful  to  us  both,  I  think.  You 
will  not  return  to  your  home,  and  they  tell 
me  you  are  cjuite  changed.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  it;  and  yet  I  feel  7n?/seZ/' so  differ- 
ent from  what  I  was  two  years  and  a  half 
ago,  that  there  may  be  as  great  an  altera- 
tion in  you.  But  1  cannot  think,  however 
wild  you  maybe  now,  that  you  will  not 
repent ;  and  then  our  meeting  will  be  hap- 
))ier  than  it  could  bo  now.  Oh  !  dear  boy. 
if  you  love  me  still  a  little,  try  to  be  a  good 
man.  Go  home,  and  beg  de^-r  Lady 
Rachel's  forgiveness.  I  shall  never  see 
you  otherwise,  I  fear. 

"  Your  affectionate  cousin. 

"  Evelyn." 

Though  this  brief  epistle  made  me 
wrathful,  in  one  way,  as  proving  how  suc- 
cessfully our  two  mothers  had  impregnated 
my  darling's  mind  with  the  belief  in  my 
moral  turpitude,  the  tender  childlike  way 
in  which  she  still  clung  to  the  hope  of  my 
repentance,  and  of  our  meeting  when  my 
filial  iniquities  were  wiped  away,  comtbrt- 
ed  me  beyond  measure.  It  is  true  that 
that  which  she  looked  for  as  the  touchstone 
of  my  reformation  would  never  come  to 
pass  ;  but  time  would  surely  disprove  the 
truth  of  the  allegations  against  me,  even 
though  I  should  never  play  the  part  of  the 
prodigal  son  at  Beaumanoir. 

Evelyn  was  changed ;  yes,  I  could  per- 
ceive that ;  but  the  sweet,  faithful  nature 
remained  unimpaired,  tliough,  as  regarded 
me,  the  implicit  confidence  of  childhood 
had  given  place  to  a  state  of  feeling  in 
which  hope  was  largely  mingled  with  sor- 
row and  anxiety.  She  would  never  desert 
me,  —  that  I  felt  confident  of;  yet  she  had 
believed  —  or,  at  all  events,  had  not  re- 
fused utterly  to  disbelieve  —  the  evil  she 
had  been  told  of  me.  And  how  could  it 
be  otherwise  V  Loving  her  own  mother  as 
she  did,  and  reared  in  the  blind  acceptance 
of  all  that  fell  from  Lady  Rachel  as  the 
utterances  of  an  oracle,  could  she  suddenly 
emancipate  herself  from  the  traditions  of 
her  young  life,  and  refuse  to  give  credence 
to  what  she  was  told  ?  Elizabeth  would 
have  done  so  under  like  circumstances  ; 
but  then  she  was  cast  in  a  different  mould. 
Such  self-assertion  would  have  been  foreign 
to  Evelyn's  nature.  She  would  chug  with 
tlie  tenacity  of  ivy  to  the  wall,  however 
fierce  the  storm  that  beat  against  it ;  but 
slie  had  none  of  the  bold,  thorny  character 
of  the  aloe. 


I  liad  not  been  to  Chelsea  for  nearly  a 
week,  —  quite  an  unprecedented  absence, 
since  I  had  acquired  the  liabit  of  going 
there  ;  but  I  did  not  feel  in  spirits  to  cope 
with  Elizabeth's  "  cliaff,"  should  she  chance 
to  be  in  a  merry  humor;  and  so  it  was  not 
until  Wednesday  afternoon  that  I  made  my 
way  to  Clieyne  Walk. 

It  was  a  warm,  gray  autumn  day ;  there 
seemed  but  little  life  left  in  any  thing ;  the 
very  current  of  the  river  appeared  languid, 
as  I  watched  it  from  the  doorstep  of  Cou- 
sin Iliunjihrey's  house.  Old  Anne,  the 
parlor-maid,  who  was  now  a  great  friend  of 
mine,  came  to  the  door.  Master  was  in  his 
own  den  wi'itlng,  she  said  ;  poor  Mr.  John 
was  in  his  bed,  —  he  had  been  very  ill,  but 
was  better;  still  the  doctor  ordered  him  to 
be  kept  quiet ;  Mr.  Francis  was  out ;  Miss 
Elizabeth  was  in  the  garden,  —  would  I  iro 
to  her  ? 

Of  course  I  went ;  threading  the  tangled 
mass  of  lilac-bushes  and  seringas,  over  a 
moss-grown  path,  till  I  came  to  what  had 
once  been  a  summer-house,  the  roof  of 
which  hail  now  fallen  in,  and  the  boarded 
sides  were  gradually  droj^ping  away.  It 
was  a  dreary  haunt  enough,  but  apparently 
Elizabetli  thought  otherwise  ;  for  here  she 
was,  seated  on  a  three-legged  stool,  leaning 
her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  with  a  plate  of  chicken-bones, 
parings  of  cheese,  and  fi-agraents  of  pud- 
ding on  the  ground  before  her. 

"  What  ou  earth  are  you  doing  here, 
Elizabeth  ?  " 

She  started  up,  and  a  flush  came  into  her 
cheek. 

"  At  last !  I  thought  you  never  were 
coming  again.  O  Osmund  !  I  have  been 
so  wretched,  —  so  wretched  these  last  few 
days.     Have  you  seen  poor  dad  ?  " 

"  No.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  from  Anne 
that  he  has  been  ill  again ;  but  he  is  bet- 
ter." 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  ;  she 
looked  at  me  steadily,  with  an  expression  I 
could  hardly  mistake. 

"  Yes,  he  is  better,  or  I  shouldn't  be  here. 
But  he  is  changed,  — oh  !  so  changed,  Os- 
mund. He  will  never  be  the  man  he  was 
again.  He  sleeps  now  most  part  of  the 
day  ;  and  I  never  leave  him,  except  to  get 
a  breath  of  air  out  here.  jVIy  bed  is  moved 
into  his  room.  Poor,  dear  dad  !  He  doesn't 
suffer  now,  —  he  seems  stunned  since  this 
last  attack." 

"  When  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  The  very  night  you  were  with  us  last, 
—  Thursday,  wasn't  it  Y  It  was  terrible,  — 
much  worse  than  it  ever  was  before.  His 
usual  medicine  had  no  effect :  we  sent  for 
two  doctors,  and  I  thought  they  never 
would  arrive.     He  was  so  exhausted  with 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


89 


the  violence  of  the  spasms  that  he  lay  mo- 
tionless as  a  eorpse  for  hours." 

"  Mr.  Francis  and  Humphrey  were  with 
■  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr.  Francis, 
I  don't  know  Avhat  I  should  have  done,  — 
he  was  so  wise  and  cahn,  and  told  me  wliat 
to  do,  —  only  I  couldn't  obey  him  quite. 
Poor  Cousin  Humphrey  has  never  seen  any 
illness  in  his  life ;  he  was  no  use.  Mr. 
Francis  got  a  sceu7'  de  charite  next  day, 
who  lias  been  here  ever  since ;  he  tried  to 
persuade  me  not  to  sleep  in  dad's  I'ooni.  I 
told  him  I  would  sleep  on  the  bare  boards  ; 
but  I  would  not  be  j^arted  from  my  dad 
when  he  was  so  ill." 

'•  WeH,  I  think  you  were  right ;  but 
now  that  he  is  better,  you  must  try  to  get 
some  good  nights'  rest,  for  you  look  very 
seedy  ;  and,  if  you  were  to  fill  ill,  you  could 
be  of  no  more  use  to  dad  —  eh  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  fall  ill,"  said  Eliza- 
beth resolutely.  "  I'm  not  such  a  poor 
creature  as  not  to  be  able  to  stand  two  or 
three  nifhts'  watchinii.  It  isn't  that  makes 
me  look  seedy,  Osmund:  it  is  —  it  is  "  — 
she  turned  her  face  suddenly  away  from  me  ; 
and  the  next  words  came  out  in  a  sort  of 
hoarse  moan,  — "  it  is  that  I  know  I  shall 
not  have  him  long  with  me.  They  think  I 
don't  see  it,  —  they  think  I  am  blind  ;  but 
I  am  not.  He  may  rally  now,  but  another 
of  these  attacks  will  kill  him.  I  read  that 
in  the  doctors'  faces,  —  I  couldn't  be  de- 
ceived." 

I  murmured  something  about  never 
knowing  the  limits  of  resistance  in  a  fine 
constitution  like  her  fother's.  Then  I 
said,  — 

"  Will  he  like  to  see  me  presently,  do 
you  think  V  " 

"  He  is  asleep ;  he  will  see  you  before 
you  go  ;  you're  not  in  such  a  hurry,  are 
you  ?  "  she  added,  almost  sharply,  as  she 
brushed  the  back  of  her  hand  across  her 
eyes,  —  still  keeping  her  face  from  me. 

"  No,  I  am  not  in  a  hurry." 

"  You  might  have  come  to  see  us,  all 
these  days,  I  think." 

"  I  didn't  know  your  father  was  ill ;  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  I  have  had  a  good  deal  to 
worry  me  this  week.  That  must  be  my 
excuse,  though  of  course,  if  I  had  known 
you  were  in  trouble,  I  should  have  come 
here  at  once,  in  spite  of  every  thing." 

"  What  is  '  every  thing  '  ?  U  hat  have 
you  had  to  worry  you  ?  "  and  she  turned 
now,  and  scrutinized  my  fice  anxiously. 

"  Private  concerns.  Tiiere  are  certain 
things  one  can't  talk  to  any  one  about; 
don't  you  know  that,  Elizabeth  V  " 

She  made  no  reply ;  and  by  way  of 
changing  the  conversation,  I  said,  — 

"  And  now  tell  me,  lor  I  am  really  curi- 


ous to  know,  —  what  are  you  doing  here 
with  that  plate  ?    I  see  neither  cat  nor  dog." 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed  !  "  replied 
Elizabeth,  swallowing  the  bait,  and  with 
more  animation  in  her  tone  than  I  had  yet 
observed.  She  then  pointed  to  a  hole  in 
the  boards,  in  a  corner  of  the  shed  just  op- 
posite to  her.  "  Look  there  !  She  won't 
come  out,  though,  while  you  stand  here. 
Go  outside  the  door,  and  watch  from 
there." 

I  obeyed,  and  Elizabeth  began  a  low  coo- 
ing whistle.  For  nearly  a  minute  this  pro- 
duced no  results ;  then  from  my  post  of 
observation,  I  perceived  a  long  gray  whis- 
ker protrude  from  the  hole,  followed  by  a 
sensitive  nose,  that  sniffed  cautiously  from 
right  to  left,  and,  finally,  the  body  belong- 
ing to  it,  that  of  a  very  large  old  rat,  ap- 
peared, followed  by  three  young  ones.  They 
all  gathered  round  the  plate  at  Elizabeth's 
feet,  and  then  began  a  family  repast  which 
was  really  curious  to  watch.  The  mother 
permitteil  her  progeny  to  devour  up  the 
pudding  and  cheese  parings  as  they  chose ; 
but  the  bones  she  selected,  dividing  the 
small  ones  with  impartiality  among  her 
young,  and  keeping  the  big  ones,  which  re- 
quired tougher  teeth,  for  herself.  I,  whose 
ideas  of  a  rat  were  inseparable  from  a  ter- 
rier, and  who  had  never  seen  one  at  Beau- 
manoir  but  in  either  a  fugitive  or  a  bellicose 
attitude,  was  astonished  as  much  as  I  was 
entertained  by  a  peep  into  this  domestic 
interior.  Elizabeth  half-turned  her  head 
towards  me  with  a  smile  ;  and,  putting  her 
finger  to  her  lips,  she  produced  from  her 
pocket  an  egg,  which,  as  soon  as  the  plate 
was  cleared,  she  placed  there.  The  old  rat 
raised  herself  on  her  hind  legs,  leant  over 
the  edge  of  the  plate  and  smelt  the  egg. 
Having  satisfied  herself,  she  carefully  rais«l 
it  in  her  fore-paws,  and  as  carefully  deposit- 
ed it  on  the  floor.  Then  she  rolled  it  along, 
as  a  man  rolls  a  barrel,  to  her  hole  ;  but 
now  came  the  difficult  part  of  the  operation. 
Evidently  there  was  a  drop  of  four  or  five 
inches  from  the  flooring  to  the  ground  be- 
neath, which  the  astute  animal  was  con- 
scious might  smash  the  egg.  She,  therefore, 
descended  first ;  and,  standing  on  her  hind- 
legs,  one  of  the  young  rats  pushed  the  egg 
towards  her,  ami  she  raised  it  in  her 
fbre-|)aws.  I  never  saw  any  thing  more 
cleverly  done,  and  could  not  resist  an  ex- 
clamation, which  sent  the  three  juniors 
scampering  down  their  hole  at  a  pace  which 
must  have  somewhat  imperilled  the  egg,  I 
fear. 

"  Bravo  !  Elizabeth.  How  on  earth  did 
you  ever  tame  the  brutes  to  come  to  you  like 
this  V  " 

"Oh!  by  perseverance.  Somehow  all 
animals  get  to  know  me  very  soon." 


90 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


*'  Well,  but,  like  every  otlier  acquaint- 
ance, there  must  be  a  bejiinning." 

"  I  saw  the  ohl  rat  onv  day  run  into  that 
hole;  and  then  1  brought  something  here 
evory  ihiy  for  her  to  eat,  and  always  whis- 
tled when  I  came.  At  first  I  put  it  close  to 
the  hole,  then  a  little  farther  off,  and  so 
on.  It  has  been  my  only  little  amusement 
since  dad's  attack,  coming  here  once  a 
day  to  feed  my  poor  rats.  They  are  always 
so  glad  to  see  me  !  " 

"  1  should  think  so  —  accompanied  by 
such  a  repast.  What  a  strange  child  vou 
are !  " 

She  looked  annoyed. 

"  Strange  is  another  word  for  barbarian. 
Is  it  so  very  odd  to  be  fond  of  all  animals  V  " 

"  I  never  met  with  any  other  girl  who 
■would  make  pets  of  a  family  of  rats.  You'll 
be  having  a  menao-erie  of  tame  lions  and 
leopards  some  day." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quite  gravely, "  perhaps 
so.  Whenever  I  am  left  utterly  alone  in  the 
•world,  I  shall  make  my  friends  of  animals, 
of  one  sort  or  another." 

There  was  a  rustle  among  the  bushes, 
and  Mr.  Francis  appeared.  After  shaking 
my  hand,  he  said,  — 

"  Mr.  John  is  awake,  and  would  like  to 
see  you.  He  is  certainly  better  this  even- 
ing, Elizabeth.  Suppose  you  come  and 
take  a  short  turn  with  me  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  must  go  back  to  dad." 

"  He  wishes  to  see  Osmund  alone  for  a 
few  minutes.  Tlie  air  is  fresher  by  the 
river  than  in  this  close  garden.     Come." 

She  made  no  further  objection,  and  we 
all  three  retraced  our  steps  to  the  house. 

I  was  shown  up  stairs,  into  a  room  which 
■was  almost  completely  filled  by  a  huge 
four-post  bed,  hung  with  white  dimity  fur- 
niture. A  narrow  passage  was  practicable, 
and  no  more,  on  either  side  of  this  bed,  and 
in  the  passage  nearest  the  window  stood  the 
sosur  de  charite,  with  a  cuji  in  her  hand.  At 
the  foot  of  the  bed  was  a  sofa,"  and  a  mat- 
tress was  rolled  u[)  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
I  approached,  and  was  painfally  struck  with 
the  change  in  John  since  we  had  parted  a 
week  before.  He  held  out  his  great  brawny 
hand,  the  flesh  from  which  had  shrunk  away, 
leaving  the  bones  and  muscles  painfully  de- 
fined ;  then  he  turned,  and  said,  in  a  low, 
but  tolerable  firm  voice,  — 

"  Sister  Marv,  vou  can  leave  us  for  a  few 
minutes." 

She  glided  out,  and  I  and  the  sick  man 
■were  left  alone. 

"  Osmund,  my  boy,  I  wanted  to  say  a 
■word  with  you,"  he  began.  "  I've  been  very 
ill,  and  I  don't  know  how  long  I  may  be 
here.  God'll  take  me  when  he  sees  fit,  and 
I'm   ready  to   go,  if  it  wasn't  for  leaving 


my  poor  lass  without  a  protector  in  tho 
world  but  Humphrey ;  and,  ye  see,  Hum- 
phrey is  fifteen  years  older  than  me  !  It 
ain't  likely  that  he  will  Ije  long  after  me, 
and  then  she'll  be  quite  alone.  Now,  you're 
the  only  one  of  the  old  stock  we  can  say 
we  know,  —  the  only  relation  I  have  in  the 
world  who's  any  thing  more  than  a  stran- 
ger, and  I  feel,  somehow,  almost  as  if  you 
were  my  son.  You're  an  honest  young  chap, 
Osmund  ;  I'm  fond  of  you,  and  so  "  —  here 
John  fastened  his  hollow  eyes  on  mine, 
and  paused  for  a  second  —  "  and  so,  you 
know,  is  Liz.  She's  very  fond  of  you,  is 
Liz  —  and  there  ain't  many  that  she  likes. 
I  want  you  to  promise  that  you'll  look  after 
her  when  both  of  us  old  fellows  are  gone  — 
that  you'll  never  desert  her,  but  be  like  a  — 
well,  like  a  brother  to  her  —  there  1  I 
would  he  here  happier  if  I  heard  such  a 
promise  from  your  lips  !  " 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  then.  Depend 
on  it,  as  long  as  I  live,  I'll  look  after  li^liza- 
beth's  interest  before  my  own,  feeling  as  I 
do,  what  injustice  she  has  suffered  ;  and 
I'll  protect  her  in  every  way  I  can.  John, 
until  she  finds  a  protector  for  herself." 

He  pressed  my  hand  gently. 

"  She  won't  be  so  ill  off,  you  know,  my 
boy.  I've  saved  very  little,  it's  ti'ue  :  but 
Humphrey  has  shown  me  his  will,  in  which 
he  has  left  every  thing  to  her.  She  won't 
be  so  ill  off." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  After  your  cruel 
disappointment  about  the  Penruddocke  es- 
tate, of  course  Humphrey's  money  is  a  drop 
in  the  ocean  ;  but  I'm  very  glad  that  she  is 
at  least  fairly  provided  for." 

He  scanned  mv  face  wistful) v, 

"  Kiclies  don't  make  happiness,  my  lad. 
Maybe  she'll  be  happier  with  just  enough 
than  she  would  be  as  a  great  heiress." 

"  I  hope  she  may." 

"  And  that's  what  I  look  to,  that  she 
should  be  hapj)y.  I've  never  been  ambi- 
tious myself  (if  it  hadn't  been  for  Liz,  I 
wottldn't  have  tried  for  the  estate)  ;  and 
now  that  the  sand's  nearly  run  out,  Os- 
mund, I'm  not  ambitious  for  my  lass.  I 
hope  she'll  marry  any  honest  young  fellow 
who  loves  her,  —  no  matter  his  fortune.  I 
and  my  dear  missis  were  very  happy, 
though  we  were  as  poor  as  church-mice." 

"  A  suspicion  of  John's  wishes  flashed 
upon  me  for  the  first  time  as  he  spoke.  I 
felt  rather  confused,  with  those  large  hol- 
low eyes  riveted  on  me,  and  scarcely  know 
what  I  said  ;    but  I  remember  his  reply- 

"  Well,  my  boy,  you'll  give  her  your  best 
advice  when  I'm  gone.  She'll  obey  you, 
for  she's  fond  of  you ;  and  Liz  is  one 
who'll  go  through  fire  and  water  for  those 
she  loves,  but'U  never  be  driven." 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


91 


I  shook  John's  hand,  and  bade  huii  good- 
by,  promisiii'j;  to  return  in  a  day  or  two. 
■vvlien  I  hoped  to  find  liim  better  ;  and  then, 
without  waitinn;  to  see  Elizabeth  again,  I 
h!{'t  the  house. 

I  ft'lt  perj)lcxed  how  to  act.  Had  sim- 
ple-hearted Jolin  hinted  to  any  one  but 
myself  his  visionary  scheme?  He  was  dy- 
ing', I  felt  very  sure  ;  and  I  could  not  bear 
to  grieve  him  at  such  a  time  by  undeceiv- 
ing him,  unless,  indeed,  he  should  speak 
more  openly.  On  the  other  hand,  if  I 
went  there  almost  daily,  as  my  feelings 
would  prompt  me  to  do  at  such  a  time  as 
this,  might  not  Jolin  be  encouraged  to  be- 
lieve what  as  yet  could  be  but  a  vague 
hope  ?  Might  not  both  poor  Elizabeth  and 
myself  be  placed  thereby  in  a  position 
which  would  render  my  subsequent  conduct 
very  eml:)arrassing  ?  I  had  promised  him 
what  I  most  I'ully  meant  to  carry  out ;  and 
this  being  so,  it  was  unnecessary,  per- 
haps would  be  unwise,  that  I  should  be  too 
often  at  Cheyne  Walk  just  at  present. 
Not  that  I,  lor  a  moment,  suspected  the  real 
state  of  Elizabeth's  feelings.  I  only  feared 
that  John  might  be  led  to  speak  to  her  on 
the  subject,  and  thereby  estrange  the  j^roud 
and  sensitive  child  from  me. 

On  reaching  home,  I  found  a  telegram  on 
my  table.  It  was  from  Tufton  in  the  High- 
lands, and  was  in  these  words  :  — 

"Just  got  news  of  Loi'd  Tufton's  death. 
Hope  to  catch  evening  mail,  and  be  in  town 
at  5,  A.M." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  It  was  very  sudden,"  said  Tufton,  as 
we  sat  at  breakfast  the  next  morning. 
"  He  had  a  fit  on  Sunday  night,  and  died 
in  a  i'ew  hours.  The  letter  followed  me 
about,  and  only  reached  me  in  Invernes- 
shire  yesterday  morning.  I  telegraphed 
that  I  couldn't  get  to  Somersetshire  before 
this  afternoon.  Fancy,  he  died  without  a 
friend,  without  a  creature,  near  him,  but 
the  village  apothecary  !  I'm  not  a  humbug, 
ycu  know.  I  can't  pretend  to  feel  any  re- 
gret for  a  man  I  never  saw  but  two  or 
three  times  in  my  life,  and  who,  I  am  per- 
fectly sure,  has  left  every  farthing  lu;  could 
away  from  me  ;  but  tliere's  something  aw- 
ful in  the  idea  of  dying  like  that,  —  utterly 
uncared  for  !  Poor  old  fellow  !  I  wish  he 
hail  not  always  kept  me  at  arm's  lenglh  " 

"  \\'hat's  the  entailed  property  worth, 
Arthur?  "  I  asked,  after  a  while. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  can't  say  :    three  thou- 
sand   a  year,  j)erhaps  —  not    more.     The 
{»la(;e  is  wretched,  I  fancy,  —  has  been  neg- 
ected  for  years.     He  never  would  spend  a 


farthing  on  it,  as  it  was  entailed.  Suppose 
you  come  down  on  IVIomlay  (when  the  fune- 
ral's over  I  shall  have  enough  to  look  after, 
and  must  remain  at  Tufton  Kuynald  for 
some  weeks)  ;  suppose,  then,  you  get  leave, 
—  you  can  easily  do  so  now,  —  and  come 
down  to  me  ?  There'll  be  an  odd  pheasant 
or  two  for  you  to  kill,  at  all  events ;  and 
we'll  wander  about  the  old  place,  and  see 
what  can  be  done  to  it  —  eh  ?  " 

I  gladly  assented..  The  proposal  would 
have  been  a  i:)leasant  one  to  me  at  any 
time  ;  at  this  moment  it  exactly  jumped 
with  my  humor  to  absent  myself  from  Lon- 
don for  a  while,  and  enjoy  the  country 
quietly  with  my  friend  in  his  new  domain. 

I  saw  Elizabeth  twice  befbi-e  I  left  town. 
John  had  rallied  sufficiently  to  be  in  the 
drawing-room  on  the  occasion  of  my  last 
visit  to  Cheyne  Walk.  Still,  I  entertained 
no  hope  of  his  ultimate  recovery,  nor  I 
think  did  any  one  of  us,  though  we  all 
talked  cheerfully.  I  pleaded  an  engagement 
when  pressed  to  stay  to  dinner;  and,  at 
])arting,  begged  that  either  Francis  or 
Elizabeth  would  write  and  give  me  tidings 
of  the  invalid. 

"  How  long  shall  you  be  away  ?  "  said 
Elizabeth  sadly,  as  she  opened  the  hall- 
door  for  me. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  —  some  weeks  at  all 
events.  I  have  got  my  winter's  leave  ;  but, 
as  1  never  go  to  Beaumanoir,  when  my 
friend  leaves  his  place,  or  has  had  enough 
of  my  society,  unless  I  pay  some  other 
visits,  I  shall  return  to  town." 

"  I  hope  so.  How  I  wish  I  were  going 
too !  that  we  wei-e  all  going  to  leave  this 
dismal  hole  for  the  country ! "  and  she 
looked  up  at  the  fog-laden  sky  with  a  sigh. 
"  I  hate  gloomy,  sorrowful  London.  ]),id 
would  get  well,  I  think,  if  he  saw  the  fields 
again.  Well,  good-by  once  more.  Come 
back  soon  —  do  come  back  soon." 

And  her  earnest  face  peered  out  through 
the  half-open  door  into  the  twilight,  and 
was  the  last  thing  I  saw,  as  I  looked  back 
towards  the  house. 

Arthur  Tufton  had  said  no  more  than  the 
truth  when  he  told  me  that  his  uncle  had 
neglected  the  small  family  estate  to  which 
my  friend  now  succeeded.  Partly,  1  am 
inclined  to  hope,  from  a  horror  of  cutting 
down  a  tree,  partly  from  indolence  and 
want  of  interest  in  the  place,  the  late  Lord 
Tufton  had  allowed  the  woods,  which  sur- 
roundtid  the  damp  and  desolate  old  house 
on  all  sides,  to  go  to  ruin  for  want  of  thin- 
ning. It  was  a  ])erfi'ct  wilderness,  where 
more  than  half  the  trees,  which,  if  allowed 
air  and  room  to  expand  some  years  ago, 
would  now  have  been  valuable  timber,  were 
absolutely  worthless  ;  a  tangle  of  miserable 
sa^jlings,  struggling  upwards  to   the   light 


92 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


■with  an  impenetrable  un(lei"<^rowth  of 
briers.  The  house  had  this  distinction, 
that  it  was,  without  excejition,  the  most 
hiik'ous  and  hopeless  buililing  I  over  be- 
held. One's  heart  died  within  one  as  one 
drove  up  to  the  door  over  a  heavy,  wet 
gravel  sweep,  which,  being  on  an  inclkie 
downwards,  enabled  a  small  lake  to  settle 
round  the  house,  imparting  a  fine  green 
tone  to  the  lower  part  of  the  walls.  Archi- 
tecture there  could  not  be  said  to  be  any. 
Four  walls  ])ierced  with  holes  for  windows, 
and  a  long  straggling  tail  of  offices,  no  vis- 
ible roof,  and  a  depressing  portico  sustained 
by  pillars,  from  which  the  stucco  was  peal- 
ing in  flakes,  —  this  was  the  first  aspect  of 
Tufton  Reynald.  Inside,  the  only  tolerably 
comfortable  room  was  the  librai-y.  There 
Arthur  Tufton  received  me ;  and  there  we 
always  sat,  as  long  as  I  was  in  the  house. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said  to  me  one  morning, 
"  when  I  look  back  six  months,  I  feel  like 
a  man  just  awoke  from  a  nightmare.  I've 
had  a  stroke  of  luck  I  didn't  deserve. 
When  I  see  so  many  poor  devils  who  have 
never  tempted  fortune  live  and  die  pau- 
pers, I  feel  how  unjust  is  the  division  of 
the  loaves  and  fishes  in  this  world." 

"  What  I  can  never  make  out,"  I  said, 
"  is  how  on  earth  you  ever  took  to  gam- 
bling. Some  fellows  take  to  it  from  love  of 
excitement,  but  you  never  got  excited ; 
indeed,  you  always  seemed  to  dislike  and 
avoid  excitement." 

"  I  did  it  to  try  to  drown  thought,"  he 
said  slowly,  "just  as  some  men  drink.  It 
was  the  only  thing  except  music  that  could 
absorb  me  for  a  time.  However,  we  won't 
talk  of  that.  I  registered  a  vow,  when, 
thanks  to  you,  dear  Pen,  I  pulled  through 
my  difficulties,  that  I  would  never  touch  a 
card  again ;  and  I  mean  to  keep  it." 

"  And  now,  Arthur,  I  declare  you  must 
marry.  This  place  wants  a  woman's  eye  : 
nothing  else  will  set  it  to  rights ;  and 
now  you're  a  lord  with  a  castle  (like  the 
lover  in  those  religious  little  novels  — he's 
always  a  lord),  why,  you've  all  the  world 
to  pick  from." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  with  something  between 
a  smile  and  a  sigh.  '•  There  you  are,  at  it 
again.  Well,  Pen,  when  I  find  my  ideal 
woman,  she  shall  be  Lady  Tufton  ;  but  I 
fancy  I  shall  have  some  time  to  wait." 

'•  What  is  she  to  be  like,  Arthur  ?     De- 
scribe her,  am'  I'll  look  out  for  the  article." 
"  Fair,  and  fabulously  beautiful,  of  course. 
Very  young,  very  innocent,  and  utterly  ig- 
norant of  the  ways  of  this  wicked  world." 

"  Hum  !  we'll  ride  those  two  old  screws 
about,  and  make  acquaintance  with  the 
neighborhood,  Arthur :  who  knows  what 
may  turn  up  ?  There's  a  table  covered 
with  the  cards  that  have  beeu  left  for  you. 


We'll  penetrate  every  house  within  fifteen 
miles." 

This  sort  of  chaff  was  constantly  re- 
newed :  his  way  of  taking  it  only  convinced 
me  more  than  ever  that  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult indeed  to  find  the  woman  who  should 
touch  Arthur  Tufton's  heart. 

The  days  sped  swiftly.  There  was  a 
septuagenarian  keeper  and  a  couple  of  half- 
blind  old  dogs,  in  whose  company  I  wan- 
dereil  about  whenever  Arthur  was  enoiaged 
on  business.  There  was  a  great  deal  to  be 
done,  and  he  went  at  it  manfully.  It  was 
a  pleasure  to  watch  the  change  in  him. 
Even  in  the  days  of  his  profound  depres- 
sion I  had  always  preferred  his  society  to 
that  of  any  other  man  ;  but  now  that  the 
load  was  lifted,  as  it  had  never  before  been 
lifted  during  my  knowledge  of  him,  he  was 
a  most  charming  companion.  More  char- 
acters lose  than  gain  in  prosperity.  His, 
like  a  picture  steeped  in  shadows,  needed 
sunshine  to  bring  out  its  luminous  corners. 

Early  in  December  I  heard  from  Mail- 
ame  d'Arnheim  of  their  return  to  Lon- 
don ;  and,  by  the  same  post,  Tufton  and  I 
received  invitations  to  Kendal  Castle  for 
the  beginning  of  January.  The  D'Arn- 
heims,  I  knew,  were  to  be  there ;  for  she 
named  it  in  a  recent  letter  from  Germany. 
I  had  some  little  difficulty,  in  persuading 
my  host  to  accept  the  invitation,  his  indif- 
ference to  general  society  having  in  no 
degree  diminished  ;  but  I  succeeded  at  last 
—  partly  by  the  assurance  that,  even  if  the 
rest  of  the  company  bored  him,  he  could 
not  fail  to  like  ^ladame  d'Arnheim,  whom 
he  had  never  yet  met. 

The  Duke  of  Kendal,  as  of  course  every 
one  knows,  is  the  father  of  Lord  Ancastar  ; 
and  a  gceater  conti'ast  than  exists  between 
these  two  men  cannot  be  found.  The  duke 
is  a  fine  old  Tory  peer, — none  of  your 
milk-and-water  Conservatives,  but  a  genu- 
ine old  Tory.  Need  I  say  that  his  son  if 
an  out-and-out  Radical  ?  His  grace  is  a 
good  classic,  and  an  indifferent  French- 
man. Ancaster  tells  you  he  despises  dead 
tongues,  and  ever}-  thing  else  that  has  not 
within  it  the  elements  of  vitality  and  prog- 
ress. The  duke  is  Lord  Lieutenant  of  tht 
county,  and  commands  the  militia ;  his  son 
delivers  lectures  in  the  town-hall,  wrires 
letters  to  the  papers  to  prove  that  the  sole 
hopes  of  the  country  are  in  the  volunteers  : 
and,  on  the  smallest  provocation,  will  head 
a  processional  demonstration  against  some- 
thing or  other,  with  a  baldric  and  a  ban- 
ner in  his  hand. 

And,  utterly  unlike  as  the  father  and 
son  are,  the  duchess  and  her  daughter-in- 
law  are  yet  more  violently  opposed.  The 
duke  and  Ancaster  have  at  least  this  in 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


93 


common  :  tliey  have  strong  natural  affec- 
tions ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  their  quarrels  and 
essential  ilifferences  of  opinion  upon  every 
subject  under  the  sun,  they  are  attached  to 
each  other  and  to  their  homes.  As  much 
cannot  be  said  for  the  ladies.  The  duch- 
ess is  a  proud,  rigid  lady  of  the  old  school, 
whose  conduct  has  always  been  as  unim- 
peachable as  her  manners,  and  her  tongue 
as  cruel  as  her  eye.  When  people  say  of 
a  woman,  "  It  is  better  to  have  her  as  a 
friend  than  an  enemy,"  you  know  what 
you  have  to  expect. 

The  only  point  of  resemblance  between 
the  duchess  and  Lady  Ancastar  is  their 
height.  They  are  both  nearly  five  ii?et 
eigiit,  without  heels  to  their  shoes.  But 
Lady  Ancastar  is  graceful,  as  stature  is 
graceful ;  and  the  duchess  is  only  erect, 
like  a  niedia?val  image  of  the  Virgin.  The 
one  is  of  marble,  the  other  of  wood  and 
paint.  Her  Grace's  clothes  hang  on  her 
—  they  don't  sit ;  Lady  Ancastar's  dra- 
peries ilow  rhythmically  about  her  limbs. 
The  duchess  is  peculiarly  bitter  against 
M'hat  she  calls  •'  the  low-lived  ways  of  the 
j)resent  day  ;  "  Lady  Ancastar,  as  I  have 
already  hinted,  is  one  of  the  fiistest  of  the 
fast.  Her  dress,  or  rather  undress,  is  in 
itself  an  offence  which  the  duchess  cannot 
find  language  strong  enough  to  condemn. 
That  her  daughter-in-law  should  hunt,  and 
shoot,  and  have  a  betting-book,  and  make 
parties  to  Evans's,  and  smoke  cigarettes, 
ai-e  enormities  which  make  the  duchess's 
blood  run  cold  :  no  high-bred  woman  ever 
thought  of  imitating  cocottes  in  her  day. 
Lady  Ancastar  hates  her  mothei'-in-law, 
and  is  delighted  when  any  one  will  turn  her 
into  ridicule  ;  but  if  it  comes  to  a  sparring- 
match  between  them,  she  always  gets  the 
worst  of  it  —  for  the  one  is  clever,  and  the 
other  is  not;  indeed.  Lady  Ancastar,  for 
all  her  noisy  clatter,  is  a  dull  woman. 

The  Ancasters  stay  at  Kendal  Castle 
twice  a  year.  In  January  there  is  always 
a  large  party  and  a  ball,  and  Her  Grace  is 
a  good  deal  troubled,  for  at  least  two 
months  beibrehand,  as  to  the  making  up  of 
her  party.  If  she  can  possibly  help  it, 
she  will  never  invite  any  of  the  fast  Ancas- 
tar set,  —  that  is,  the  women  ;  for,  as  to 
men's  morals,  she  is  not  particular,  though 
she  is  about  their  manners.  The  laissez- 
aller  of  the  younger  generation,  their  talk- 
ing to  her  with  their  hands  in  their  pock- 
ets, sprawling  over  the  sofas,  and  leaning 
their  elbows  on  the  table,  she  is  most  se- 
vere upon;  still  one  cannot  do  without 
young  men  at  a  large  country-house,  and 
the  duchess  is  obliged  to  tolerate  a  number 
of  dancing  boys  "  of  good  birth,  but  exe- 
crable breeding,"  as  she  says.  As  to  the 
women,  there  are  politic  or  political  rea- 


sons for  asking  some,  whom  the  duchess 
squares  it  with  her  conscience  by  snubbing 
when  they  come ;  and  then  the  duke,  in 
his  good-nature,  occasionally  asks  others, 
whom  the  duchess  receives  with  polished 
sarcasm,  and  over  whose  backs  she  empties 
the  vials  of  a  virtuous  indignation.  They 
require  to  be  of  the  very  toughest  material 
—  like  Mrs.  Chaffinch,  or  that  beautiful 
cruche  casse'e,  Mrs.  Hartman  "Wild,  who,  by 
patronage  in  high  places,  has  crept  into 
the  best  society  —  ever  to  pay  a  second 
visit  to  Kendal  Castle,  after  the  treatment 
they  experience  ;  but  it  shows  what  suffer- 
ing humanity  will  stand  —  few  of  theip  ever 
refuse.  The  rest  of  the  society  there  is 
maile  up  much  as  the  society  of  every  other 
country-house  is,  the  solidly  dull  and  high- 
ly respectable  element  being  well  repre- 
sented. It  is  this  strange  contrast  and 
combat  between  the  old  style  and  the  new, 
the  duchess's  friends  and  her  daughter-in- 
law's,  like  antagonistic  liquids  in  one  ves- 
sel, fizzing  at  each  other,  which  is  the  pe- 
culiar characteristic  of  Kendal  Castle. 

Wq  got  there  late  in  the  day,  the  jour- 
ney from  Tufton  Ileynald  being  a  long  one 
across  country.  There  was  a  hard  i'rosi ; 
and  the  huge  outline  of  the 'castle  stooil 
out  against  a  star-lit  sky,  as  we  drove  up 
to  the  old  iron-bound  door. 


CHAPTER   XXXIL 

Only  the  duke  and  a  ?ew  men  were  in 
the  library  when  we  entered;  the  ladies, 
(with  such  of  the  men  as  enjoyed  a  novel 
in  their  dressing-gowns  and  slippers)  having 
retired  for  that  hour  before  dinner,  which 
is  a  sort  of  moral  "  pick-me-up  "  between 
the  social  exertions  of  the  morning  and  the 
evening. 

Among  the  knot  assembled  I  was  sorry 
to  find  Selden.  Since  that  disaiireeable 
affair  between  Benevento  and  me,  he  and  I 
had  not  met.  He  had  blamed  me,  as  I 
knew,  in  no  measured  terms,  and  had  de- 
fended his  Italian  friend  very  warmly  ;  and, 
moreover,  if  it  were  possible  that  so  old  a 
stager  could  be  jealous  of  a  boy  yoiuig 
enough  to  be  his  son,  I  was  inclined  to 
think  that  Tufton's  fondness  for  me  irritated 
his  cousin.  He  had  written  to  offer  him- 
self at  Tufton  Ileynald  soon  after  Arthur 
came  into  possession ;  but  the  latter  had 
maile  some  excuse  for  deferring  his  visit  ; 
and  Selden  was  aware  that  1  was  his  cous- 
in's guest  at  that  moment.  So,  there  was 
no  love  lost  between  us  ;  but,  being  English- 
n)en  of  society  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
of  course  we  shook  hands  as  though  we 
were  the  best  friends. 


94 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


The  only  other  f;xee  I  recognized,  and 
recoirnized  with  pleasure,  in  the  <iroup,  was 
old  Jack  riorton's, — kind  old  Jack,  who 
had  iJ|)oken  a  friendly  word  in  good  season 
to  me  at  the  time  of  my  puljlic  discom- 
fiture. 

The  dnke  received  me  very  courteously. 
I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  he  knew  my  name. 
I  was  one  of  the  ruck  of  young  men  whom 
the  duchess  asked  occasionally,  and  he  cer- 
tainly had  once  shaken  hands  with  me  in  a 
crush  at  Kendal  House.  Still,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  he  did  not  know  me 
from  Adam  when  he  greeted  me  to  Kendal 
Castle. 

Tufton  he  had  never  seen  before  ;  but, 
wifh  a  fine  geniality  of  manner  which  be- 
longs to  old  Englishmen  of  the  highest 
class,  he  said,  as  we  stood  round  the  fire,  — 
"  You  and  I  ought  to  know  each  other, 
Lord  Tufton,  for  we  are  related.  My  great- 
grand-mother's  brother's  daughter  was  your 
orand-molher's  mother ;  did  you  know 
That '!  " 

No,  he  did  not.  He  laughingly  confessed 
that  he  was  not  well  up  in  his  ancestry  ; 
but  added  that  he  should  improve  the 
acquaintance  of  his  great-grandmother 
fortinvith,  if  she  was  a  link  connecting  him 
to  the  house  of  Kendal. 

'•  All  relations  beyond  first  cousins  are 
humbugs,  and  should  be  abolished,"  said  a 
young  man  in  a  frieze  coat,  and  very  dirty 
boots  ami  gaiters,  who  had  entei'ed  the 
room  while  Tutton  was  speaking. 

"My  son,  Ancastar  —  Lord  Tufton  — 
Mr.  Penruddoeke.  My  son,"  continued 
his  grace,  with  a  laugh  which  was  a  little 
forced,  "  my  son's  law  is  what  I  call  '  the 
law  of  topsy-turvy,'  Lord  Tufton.  What- 
ever has  been  is  wrong,  and  must  be  re- 
versed. But  you  were  not  aware  that 
Lord  Tufton  was  a  third  cousin  of  yours, 
I  am  sure,  when  you  made  that  speech, 
Ancastar ;  as  to  myself,  I  hold'by  relation- 
ships very  much,  and  hope  never  to  see  tlie 
day  when  the  claims  of  kindred  are  set 
aside.  '  Blood  is  thicker  than  water  ; ' 
but  all  ties  seem  to  be  considered  as  water 
in  the  present  day." 

••  Isn't  a  man's  individual  claim  to  re- 
gard," began  Lord  Ancastar,  "  better  than 
one  founded  on  the  fact  that  two  people 
whom  none  of  us  know  or  care  any  thing 
about " — 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interrupted  the 
duke,  "  i  both  know  and  care  about  my 
ancestry." 

"  I  never  heard  of  one  of  them  doing 
any  thing  worth  being  remembered  for," 
said  his  son. 

•'  That  is  to  say,  none  of  them  were  So- 
cialists or  Radicals,"  returned  the  duke, 
with  an  extraordinary  command  of  temper. 


"  I  am  all  for  remembering  a  man  who 
is  useful  in  his  generation,  —  not  otherwise, 
—  whether  he  is  my  ancestor,  or  my  ances- 
tor's shoe-black." 

"  But  yoti'd  rather  he  were  the  shoe- 
black—  you  know  you  would,  Ancastar  !  " 
laughed  Selden. 

•'  As  to  that,  if  I  only  looked  long  enough, 
I  might  find  one  among  my  forefathers,  I 
dare  say.  In  my  mother's  family  (though 
she  never  will  own  it),  I  know  that  a  man 
was  hanged  lor"  — 

"  Come,  come,  Ancastar,  '  De  mortuis  nil 
nisi  bonum  !'"  said  the  duke,  rather  im|)a- 
tiently.  "  If  you  can  remember  nothing 
good  of  your  ancestors,  at  all  events  do  not 
drag  their  names  through  the  dirt." 

Ancastar  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Castle,  who  is  always  poring  over 
musty  old  folios,  tells  me  he  traced  his  ped- 
igree up  to  a  butcher  of  oxen  in  Edward 
the  Third's  reif>n,  when  he  thought  it  time 
to  stop." 

"  He  still  assumes  the  horns  as  one  of 
his  crests,"  laughed  Selden,  sotto  voce. 
Either  the  duke  did  not  hear,  or  he  did  not 
choose  to  understand.  He  was  one  of 
that  loyal  old  race  who  discourage  scandal, 
and  was  always  chivalrous  in  defence  of 
women's  reputations.  There  was  a  laugh, 
more  or  less  audible,  but  the  duke  only 
coughed,  and  said,  — 

"We  expect  Lord  and  Lady  Castle  here 
to-morrow." 

And  then  he  turned  to  some  of  the  older 
men,  whom  I  did  not  know,  and  began 
discussing  the  prospects  of  the  next  ses- 
sion. 

"By  the  by,  where  is  Benevento,  Sel- 
den V  "  asked  Lord  Ancastar.  I  never  could 
decide  whether  he  was  absolutely  tact- 
less, or  had  some  sixth  sense  ibr  discover- 
in"-  awkward  subjects,  which  he  felt  must 

O  t/-"  ^  1111 

have  been  given  him  to  use,  just  as  he  held 
it  to  be  his  duty  to  "  speak  his  mind  "  upon 
every  occasion. 

"  Benevento  has  been  making  a  sort  of 
royal  progress  through  Scotland  all  the 
autumn,"  replied  Selden,  glancing  at  me, 
—  "  made  immensely  of,  wherever  he  went ; 
a,nd  no  wonder  !  The  best-looking  fellow 
I  know,  and  certainly  one  of  the  cleverest." 

'•  Yes,"  muttered  old  Jack.  "  Clever 
enough." 

"  He  is  now  in  Ireland  —  at  Castle  Orey, 
I  believe,"  continued  Selden. 

"  What  ?  The  Guildmores  ?  "  cried  old 
Jack.  "  Is  he  trying  to  capture  that  castle 
now  by  a  coup  de  main  f  " 

"  If  he  is,  it  will  prove  to  be  a  Chateau 
en  Espagne"  said  Ancastar. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Selden.  "  He  isn't  the 
heiress's  style  —  and  he  knows  it.  I  have 
heard  it  whispered  that  she  showed  some 


PEXRUDDOCKE. 


95 


weakness  for  Arthur,"  he  added,  Liuci;hiii;^, 
"  but  he  would  Iiave  nothin<4  to  say  to  her. 
Sounds  increililjle,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  What  stulF  you  do  talk,  Walter  !  Your 
hair  is  i^ettinjj;  gray  —  and  yet  you're  just 
like  a  schoolboy,  repeating  such  rubbish." 

"  I  can't  change  my  ways  :  all  I  can  do 
is  to  change  my  hair.  I'm  going  to  take 
to  '  Rossiler.'  I'm  only  four  years  older 
than  Benevento,  and  I  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't  be  juvenile  and  seductive  a  little 
longer  as  well  as  he." 

"  Some  people,"  said  Ancastar,  with  a 
twinkle  of  his  eye,  "  would  account  for 
Benevento's  not  requiring  '  Rossiter '  by 
saying  that  he  was  already  of  the  '  blackest 
dye.'  By  the  way,  hadn't  you  and  he 
some  row,  Mr.  Penruddocke '?  I  never 
heard  the  riglits  of  that  story." 

I  grew  crimson,  and  was  casting  about 
for  a  reply,  when  Arthur  came  gallantly  to 
my  rescue. 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  row  on  my  account. 
Penruddocke,  with  more  generosity  than 
prudence,  interfered  once,  when  it  would 
have  been  wiser  not  to  have  done  so. 
That's  all.  It  is  one  of  those  subjects 
upon  which  'the  least  said,  the  soonest 
mended.' " 

"  I  shall,  always  maintain,"  said  my  old 
champion,  Jack,  lifting  up  his  voice,  "that 
Penruddocke  behaved  with  more  moral 
pluck  than  one  young  fellow  in  fifty  would 
have  shown  on  that  occasion.  To  denounce 
a  man  publicly  in  a  mess-room  is  a  job 
which  most  men  would  shrink  from.  Of 
course  he  was  mistaken  —  the  man  is  Sei- 
dell's friend,  and  he  answers  for  him  —  but 
that's  no  matter ;  it  was  a  devilish  plucky 
thing  to  do." 

Selden  and  I  both  "  rose  to  speak  "  as 
they  say  in  the  House ;  but  I  was  the 
(juicker,  feeling  that  it  was  time  to  put  a 
stop  to  these  awkward  discussions  in  my 
presence. 

•'  Thank  you,  Horton.  It's  very  kind  of 
you  to  say  all  that;  but  the  subject  is  a 
disagreeable  one  to  me,  and  I  hope  no  one 
will  introduce  it  again.  I  wish  I  could 
forget  all  about  it." 

After  this,  there  was  a  moment's  silence 
in  the  knot  among  which  I  stood.  It  was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  the  gong :  the 
duke  turned  to  us,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  The  gi-oom  of  the  chambers  will  show  you 
your  rooms.     We  dine  at  eight  o'clock." 

Tufton  and  I  inhabited  the  same  tin-ret. 
As  we  went  up  the  stairs,  he  said,  — 

"My  dear  Pen,  you  did  that  capitally. 
If  you  hadn't  si)oken  out  firmly,  you'd 
have  been  annoyed  with  chaff  oa  that  sub- 
ject all  the  time  you  were  here.  Ancastar 
is  an  ill-conditioned  hound,  in  my  opinion." 

And  so  wc  separated. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

I  ENTERED  the  drawing-room,  a  lon^ 
gallery  hung  with  crimson  satin,  in  which 
are  all  the  famous  Vandyeks  of  the  Ken- 
dal family,  just  as  the  second  gong  sound- 
ed. The  duchess  held  out  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  to  me. 

"  Have  you  come  from  Beaumanoir,  Mr. 
Penruddocke  ?  " 

'•  No,  —  I  came  with  Tufton  from  his  place ; 
and  an  awfully  cold  journey  we  had  across 
countrv." 

"  I  liope  Lady  Rachel  is  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  when  I  last  heard  from  her, 
Duchess." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  remiss  in  writing 
to  your  mother,  Mr.  Penruddocke  ?  Young 
men  in  the  present  day  are  to  apt  to  call  it 
'  a  bore.' " 

"  I  always  answer  my  mother's  letters 
at  once.  Duchess." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  have  not  seen 
Lady  Rachel  for  many  years ;  but  she  was 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  persons  I  ever 
knew,  and  had  a  distinction  which  all  the 
young  women  now  seem  to  have  lost." 

Her  grace  spoke  with  an  incisive  clear- 
ness which  penetrated  farther  than  louder 
voices  ;  and  two  girls,  who  had  just  entered 
the  room  with  their  mother,  looked  ])ain- 
fuUy  conscious  that  the  remarks  of  their 
stately  but  sharp  tongued  hostess  applied 
but  too  well  to  them.  Their  mother  was  a 
marchioness,  and  their  veins  were  filled 
with  the  bluest  blood  ;  but  less  aristocratic- 
looking  young  females  I  never  beheld.  I 
found  them  good-natured,  however,  full  of 
fun  and  high  spirits  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  I 
am  inclined  to  think  they  added  more  to 
the  hilarity  of  the  party  than  had  they  pos- 
sessed more  dignified  patrician  manners. 

The  room  began  to  fill.  Lady  Ancastar 
glided  in  like  a  white  swan,  on  a  wave  of 
pale  green  satin.  Her  arms  were  bare  to 
the  shoulder ;  indeed,  sleeves  there  were 
none.  I  saw  the  duchess  raise  her  double- 
glass,  and  scan  her  daughter-in-law,  and 
her  nostrils  curled  as  she  did  so.  I  went 
forward  and  shook  hands  with  the  beau- 
tiful nude,  and  with  her  friend,  jMrs.  Hart- 
man  Wild,  whom  I  knew  slightly,  —  a 
lovely,  r)each-like  woman,  excessively  vain 
and  foolish,  whose  hold  on  society  consisted 
chiefly  in  the  dimples  on  her  shoulders. 
Lord  Henry,  Algy  Littleton,  the  great 
leader  of  cotillons,  and  general  master  of 
the  revels.  Lord  Wilverly,  and  half  a  doz- 
en other  men,  now  came  in  ;  then  three  or 
four  women,  whom  I  oidy  knew  by  sight, 
in  London,  as  belonging  to  the  "  cream  of 
the  cream."  But  even  superlative  cream  may 
be  kept  till  it  turns  soin- ;  and  two  of  these 


96 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


ladies,  sisters,  of  unimpeacliable  manners 
and  morals,  were  decidedly  cnrdled.  The 
Ladies  Pynsent  were  ^rroat  fi'iends  of  the 
diK'lu'ss's  :  they  had  the  remains  of  beauty, 
and  were  considered  clever,  I  l)elieve.  1 
can  only  say,  I  never  talked  to  them  with- 
out havinj;  my  blood  chilled  :  I  infinitely 
preferred  the  wholesome  bitter  of  the  duch- 
ess's tirades,  which  were  honest  and  to  the 
point,  to  the  spitefulness,  veiled  under  a 
thin  watery  smile,  which  stun<r  every  thing 
it  tonehed  throughout  the  talk  of  the  two 
faded  beauties.  But  enough  of  them,  whom 
I  only  name  now,  as  I  shall  have  to  refer 
to  them  once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  this 
visit. 

Almost  the  last  who  appeared  —  and 
we  sat  down  thirty  in  the  great  banquet- 
ing-hall  —  were  the  U'Arnheims.  1  was 
standing  near  the  door,  waiting  for  her. 
Her  sweet  face  beamed  out  all  smiles;  but 
I  was  shocked  to  see  how  thin  and  ill  she 
looked,  as  she  returned  the  pressure  of  my 
hand. 

"I  am  so  delighted  to  see  you  again,"  I 
began.  "  It  seems  such  years  since  we 
met.     Mayn't  I  take  you  in  to  dinner  ?  " 

D'Arnheim  had  walked  on,  without  ob- 
serving me. 

"  This  is  the  house,  above  all  others  in 
England,  for  strict  etiquette,"  she  said. 
"  We  must  go  down  with  whom  we  are 
told.  But  you  can,  at  least,  try  to  sit  near 
me." 

And  I  did  so,  by  the  force  of  will  and  of 
what  I  thought  was  good  luck,  combined. 
I  tell  to  the  lot  of  a  Miss  Douglass,  a  con- 
nection of  the  duchess's,  and  not  a  bad 
girl ;  only  I  wished  her  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  tor  I  wanted  to  talk  exclusively  to 
my  other  neighi^or  :  but  this  was  not  so 
easy.  The  Board  of  Trade,  or  the  Colo- 
nies ([  forget  which),  had  taken  JNIadame 
d'Arnheim  in  to  dinner  ;  and  I  was  quite 
provoked  at  her  being  drawn  into  a  long 
argument  as  to  the  state  of  feeling  in 
Germany,  and  the  "  Bund,"  and  the  politics 
of  the  Grand-Ducal  Court,  and  a  great 
deal  more,  of  which  I  caught  snatches. 
I  felt  aggrieved,  as  though  I  had  an  undis- 
putable  right  to  monopolize  my  friend's 
conversation.  At  last,  towards  the  middle 
of  dinner,  after  I  had  made  several  efforts 
to  induce  her  to  devote  her  attention  to 
me,  she  turned,  and  said  with  a  smile,  — 

"Not  now.  Be  a  little  patient.  We 
shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  talk  by  and 
by.  I  see  you  are  not  improved  —  as 
inconsiderate  as  ever  —  and,  please,  don't 
crumble  your  bread  about  in  that  way." 

I  turnwd  wrathfully  to  j\Iiss  Douglass, 
and  talked  unmitigated  rubbish  to  her  for 
the  next  half  hour,  which  accounts  for  the 
opinion   that   young   lady,  I  am   told,  ex- 


pressed of  me,  that  I  was  "  nice,  but  cer- 
tainly very  odd ;  silent  and  absent  at  one 
moment,  and  then,  the  next,  with  such  a 
(low  of  conversation." 

'•  Now,  presently,  we  can  have  our  chat," 
said  ISIadame  d'Arnheim,  as  the  ladies  rose 
from  the  table. 

I  hate  sitting  long  over  one's  wine  ;  and 
there  was  some  '34  claret,  with  an  argu- 
ment on  female  suflfrage,  broached  to- 
gether, which  threatened  to  keep  us  till 
midnight.  It  was  curious  to  hear  the 
duke,  that  most  chivalrous  of  men,  inveigh 
against  the  extension  of  the  franchise  to 
women ;  and  Ancastar,  who  treated  the 
fair  sex  —  as  he  did  every  thing  in  heaven 
above,  and  on  the  earth  beneath  —  with 
far  too  little  respect,  fighting  for  the  re- 
moval of  their  disabilities;  but  the  dis- 
cussion bored  me  after  after  a  time,  and  I 
was  thankful  when  the  duke  at  last  rose, 
and  we  adjourned  to  the  music-gallery. 

There  was  a  piano  at  one  end  of  it, 
round  which  were  sathered  Miss  Douglass, 
and  the  half-dozen  other  girls  who  were 
in  the  house.  Near  one  of  the  fireplaces 
there  was  a  colony,  headed  by  the  duch- 
ess, supported  by  the  marchioness,  the 
Ladies  Pynsent.  and  the  cabinet-minister's 
wife.  Lady  Ancastar  and  Mrs.  Hartman 
Wild  were  of  course  not  with  these  :  they 
had  set  up  a  rival  camp  conjointly,  at  the 
other  fireplace,  where  they  meant  to  get 
all  the  men  of  their  own  set.  D'Arnheim 
was  of  the  number,  devoting  himself  the 
whole  evening  to  Mrs.  Hartman  Wild. 
They  were  well  mated.  And  some  dis- 
tance off,  by  herself,  sat  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim, at  a  table,  turning  over  a  volume  of 
valunble  drawings  by  old  masters.  Of 
course  I  instantly  joined  her. 

"  At  last !  Well,  I  hope  you'll  deign  to 
give  me  a  little  of  your  attention  now? 
After  six  months'  absence,  it  is  too  bad  to 
treat  me  as  you  did  at  dinner.  You  don't 
know  howl  have  missed  you  all  this  time." 

"  Have  you  V  "  she  said,  looking  up  with 
a  sweet,  but  sad  smile.  "  It  is  pleasant  to 
hear.  I  often  think  how  very  few  would 
miss  me  at  all  if  I  were  to  die." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that.  Besides,  isn't  it 
enough  to  have  one  or  two  who  really 
care  ?  I  don't  believe  in  '  large  circles  or 
mourners ; '  but,  tell  me,  how  did  you 
enjoy  your  visit  to  Germany?" 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  back,  then, 
sooner  ?  I'd  have  given  any  thing  for  you 
to  have  been  in  London  this  autumn." 

"  I  will  tell  you  why.  Karl  did  not 
choose  to  take  me  into  Hungary  ;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  I  did  not  choose  his  family 
to  say  that  I  had  left  him  to  return  to 
England      Therefore,  I  said  I  should  stay 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


97 


the   grand-duchess   till  he   came 


to 


with 
letch  nic." 

''  W'cll,  at  all  events,  she  is  a  great 
friend  of  vour.s, — you  liked  being  with 
her  ?  " 

"  What  can  one  like,  when  one's  heart 
is  sore  V  I  sometimes  longed  to  go  and 
hide  myself  in  a  desert,  where  no  one 
sLouM  ever  hear  of  me  again.  The 
grind-duchess  was  very  kind,  but  I  was 
miserable.  You  can't  understand  it,  —  no 
man  can,  I  think,  —  that  delaisse'e  feeding, 
that  feeling  that  one  is  of  no  good  to  any 
cue!" 

"  Dear  Madame  d'Arnheim,  don't  talk 
so.  You.  are  of  the  greatest  good  to  me. 
I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without 
your  friendship." 

My  hand  was  near  hers,  on  the  sofa: 
she  pressed  it  gently,  for  all  reply.  Then 
she  began  to  talk  of  abstract  matters,  — 
of  poetry  and  philosophy,  of  elective  affin- 
ities, and  of  the  undue  predominance  of 
the  objective  over  the  subjective  in  our 
lives.  Her  conversation  evinced,  as  it 
always  did,  a  cultivated  intelligence,  with 
just  that  dash  of  transcendentalism,  which 
would  raise  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  those 
who  could  not  appreciate  her,  as  I  did. 

More  than  half  an  hour  passed  thus. 
At  last  she  said  softly,  — 

"  And  now  tell  me  about  yourself.  Yon 
know  how  truly  interested  I  am  in  all  that 
concerns  you.  Have  you  heard  of  the 
little  cousin  lately  ?  " 

I  told  her  every  thing,  very  nearly  as  I 
have  told  it  here.     When  I  had  done,  — 

"  Ah  !  it  all  comes,"  she  said,  "  of  that 
unfortunate  intimncy  of  yours  with  Lady 
Castle's  set.  I  warned  you  how  it  would 
be.  All  this  gossip  about  you  and  Lady 
Castle  has  been  written  to  your  mother ; 
ami  she  and  Mrs.  Hamleigh  very  naturally 
think  it  ric,dit  to  keep  the  little  y;irl  out  of 
the  way  of  such  a  Don  Juan.  1  am  not 
surprised." 

"  Nor  am  I,  though  I  don't  exactly  take 
your  view  of  it.  My  mother  is  bent  on 
my  marrying  a  girl  with  money — that  is 
the  real  secret,  as  regards  her." 

'■  Take  my  advice,"  said  she,  fixing  her 
eyes  uj)on  mine,  and  laying  her  hand  upon 
my  arm  at  the  same  moment  —  "take  my 
advice,  and  don't  do  that.  Let  nothing 
ever  induce  you  to  marry  a  woman  bul 
because  you  love  her.  Think  of  my  words 
when  1  am  no  longer  by,  perhaps  when 
I  am  gone.  People  who  have  loved  may 
be  miserable  in  after-life,  but  at  least  they 
have  ihat  to  look  back  to.  Dante  is  wnjng, 
I  think,  when  he  says,  '  Nessun  maggior 
dolore  die  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice  ncUa 
miseria.'  No,  no!  There  is  a  far  greater 
misery,  —  that  of  feeling  that  one  has 
7 


wrecked  one's  OAvn  life ;  that  one  has 
placed  all  one's  happiness  on  the  cast  of 
a  die,  and  that  one  has  lo-it." 

She  spoke  with  unusual  vehemence  for 
her.  And  long,  long  afterwards,  I  did 
recall  her  words,  with  the  very  look  and 
gesture  that  accompanied  them,  —  recalled 
them  at  a  time,  and  under  circumstances 
that  I  little  anticipated  then  1 
We  were  interrupted. 
"  M  idame  d'Arnheim,  arc  yon  telling 
Mr.  Penruddocke  a  ghost-story  V"  said 
Ancastar,  as  he  sauntered  up,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  "  I've  seen  nothing 
so  tragic  as  your  face  since  Rachel." 

She  had  recovered  her  etjuanimity,  and 
replied,  — 

'•  Though  we  Germans  are  said  to  be  so 
stolid,  we  never  attain  to  that  impassive, 
expressionless  way  of  speaking  which  you 
fashionable  people  in  England"  — 

''  Don't  call  me  a  fashionable  person,  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  " 

" '  Your  speech  bewrayeth  you,'  Lord 
Ancastar.  You  know  you  carefully  mask 
any  emotion  when  you  talk." 

"Oh!  no -Englishman  has  emotions  — 
at  least,  in  public.  They  keep  them  for 
home-consumption." 

"  Well,  the  result  is  a  very  level,  —  may 
I  say  the  word? — apathetic  delivery. 
Englishmen  of  your  class  seldom  pro- 
nounce more  than  half  their  words;  and 
those  they  let  drop  from  them  as  if  it  was 
a  trouble  :  the  rest  they  swallow." 

"  You  are  very  severe  on  us,  Madame 
d'Arnheim." 

"  Remember,  it  was  you  who  began  the 
attack — -But  hush!  who  is  that  beiiinnin"- 
to  sing  ?  " 

"  One  of  the  Tenby  girls.  How  she 
bellows  !  By  heavens  !  Come,  tJiat  ain't 
English  apathy." 

Madame  d'Arnheim  shook  her  head  with 
a  smile. 

"  She  shouts,  it  is  true  ;  but  she  does  not 
pronoiuice  one  word.     Can  you   tell   what 
language  she  is  singing?" 
"It's  Italian,"  I  hazarded. 
"  It's  French,"  said  Ancastar  authorita- 
tively. 

"  It's  English,"  pronounced  IMadanic 
d'Ai-nheim,  after  a  couple  of  minutes.  "  I 
caught  a  th.  No  language  but  yours  has 
that  sound.  Pity  such  a  good  voice  should 
be  thrown  away,  —  should  say  nothing  at 
all  to  one  !  " 

"  What  could  a  puddingy  little  thing 
like  that  ever  say  to  you  ?  She  is  of 
dough  —  doughy,"  I  remarked. 

"  Then  that  accounts  lor  her  music.  She 
is  in  the  key  of  '  do  natural  ' "  said  Ancas- 
tar.    "  I  only  wish  she  would  rise." 

"  She  sings  in   tune,  at  all  events  :   that 


98 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


is  soinetliing,"  said  Tufton,  who  ha'l  just 
joincil  us.  His  t'at-e  of  comical  suflcriu'j; 
uinicr  the  iiiflictiou  was  a  stu'iy.  I  intro- 
duced liim  to  JMadaiiie  irAi'nli«aui. 

"  I  know  you  are  a  f;;reat  musician.  Lord 
Tufton,"  she  said.  '■  I  wish  vou  would 
phiy  to  us." 

"Not  now,"  he  answered,  with  a  signifi- 
cant smile,  whicli  was  fully  justified  a  mo- 
ment later. 

"  Shall  we  have  a  round  pjamc  ?  "  called 
out  Lady  Ancastar,  in  a  loud  voice,  from 
ber  throne  near  the  fire.  "  It  is  really  too 
dull  doiuii  nothiu'T.     Let  us  play  at  pips." 

All  her  faction — the  Fronde,  us  1  got 
to  call  them  at  last  —  rose  and  came  near 
us,  there  being  a  large  round  table  in  our 
vicinitv.  Madame  d'Arnheim  thou'jjht  it 
civil  to  get  up,  too,  though  she  hateil  cards. 
There  had  i:)een  a  lull  at  the  piano.  "  The 
first  round,"  as  Ancastar  expressed  it,  was 
over;  but  the  little  lady  had  "  come  up  to 
the  scratch  again,"  and  was  now  barking 
at  "  Roliert,  toi  que  j'aime  "  with  such  fury, 
as  would  have  struck  terror,  rather  than 
pity,  into  the  heart  of  that  unworthy  Nor- 
man, could  he  have  heard  her.  She  yelji- 
ed,  she  snarled,  she  panted  between  eadi 
bar,  like  a  plethoric  spaniel;  it  was  really 
distressing  to  listen  to,  and  Tufton  showed 
signs  of  much  mental  anguish.  Still  I 
thou'jcht  it  hardly  well-bred  to  break  in 
upon  these  exertions  with  the  clamor  of  a 
round  game.  But  Lady  Ancastar  was 
proof  against  any  misgiving  of  the  kind  : 
and,  with  unabated  cackling,  the  counters 
were  divided,  and  the  chairs  collected. 

Suddenly  the  duchess  stood  like  a  fate 
in  the  midst  of  us. 

"  I  think  you  can  hardly  be  aware,  Ara- 
bella, that  Lady  Sarah  Tenby  is  singing 
at  this  moment." 

"  I  don't  see  how  any  one  who  isn't  deaf 
could  be  ignorant  of  the  fact,"  muttered 
her  son. 

'*  Does  your  Grace  mean  to  prevent  our 
having  our  innocent  little  game  ? "  saiil 
Lady  Ancastar,  with  tlie  air  of  a  victim. 

"  I  wish  to  prevent  any  act  of  ill-breed- 
ing in  my  house,  if  I  can  prevent  it,"  re- 
sponded the  duchess  severely.  "  If  you 
must  make  a  noise,  go  into  the  drawing- 
room."  and  with  this  she   stalked  away. 

"  She  knows  there's  no  c^ird  table  in 
the  drawing-room,"  ejaculated  Lady  An- 
castar,—  "that's  the  reason  she  sends  us 
there.  It  is  really  too  slow  !  Never  mind, 
we  wont  remain  here  ;  we'll  do  something 
at  all  events.  I've  g  )t  an  idea,"  and  she 
clapped  her  hands,  and  led  the  way  into 
the  adjoining  room. 

About  eight  or  nine  men  followed,  and 
the  three  or  four  women  who  were  round 
the  card-table  ;  excepting  Madame  d'Arn- 


heim, who,  not  wishing  to  enroll  herself  in 
the  noisy  faction,  bad  glided  away,  follow- 
ed by  Tufton.  There  was  a  change  of 
performance  at  the  piano.  Lady  Sarah 
Tenby  had  made  way  for  the  thinnest  and 
sharpest  of  the  Ladies  Pynsent,  who  was 
"  reckoned  a  viny  fine  player —  a  pupil  of 
Herz's,  you  know,"  as  the  duchess  said, 
hoping  to  awe  the  muhitude  into  silence. 

'■  Go  and  ask  those  girls  wheth(;r  any  of 
them  like  to  join  a  game,"  said  Lady  An- 
castar to  me  just  as  she  reached  the  door. 
And  my  errand  was  successful ;  for  the  mer- 
ry little  Tenbys  infinitely  preferred  a  romp 
of  any  kind  to  sitting  in  solemn  silence  tor 
twenty  minutes,  while  Lady  Louisa  Pyn- 
sent  punished  Henri  Herz  for  all  his  sins 
of"  variation  "  from  the  truth.  Miss  Doug- 
lass, bound  by  ties  of  various  kinds  to 
the  duchess,  did  not  venture  to  do  what 
she  knew  would  be  disj)leasing  to  Her 
Grace,  and  so  she  continued  her  duty  of 
sitting  by  the  performer  at  the  piano,  and 
thanking  and  applauding  at  the  end  of 
each  ])iece. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  propose,"  said  Lady 
Ancastar,  in  a  sort  of  stage-whisper  :  "  we 
will  hive  a  paper-chase  over  the  castle. 
rU  be  the  hare.  You  must  give  me  three 
minutes' start ;  by  that  clock  it  is  just  a 
quarter  past  eleven." 

"And  the  duchess  ?  "  suggested  some  one. 

"  Oh  I  she  gives  the  signal  for  retiring 
a  quarter  before  twelve  always.  We 
have  a  good  half-hour  —  plenty  of  time  ;  " 
and  away  she  started,  with  a  bag  of  paper, 
evidently  ready  torn  up  for  the  pur;)i)se, 
slung  over  her  shoulder.  I  suppose  we  all 
felt  there  was  safety  in  numbers.  The 
duchess  could  hanlly  resent  a  frolic  in 
wliich  sixteen  people  were  conc-erned.  And 
at  the  expiration  of  the  three  minutes,  the 
hounds,  headed  by  Mrs.  Hartman  Wild, 
set  out  upon  the  chase. 

The  track  of  paper  led  us  up  the  great 
stair-case,  along  corridors,  in  at  one  bed- 
room door,  and  out  at  the  dressing-room, 
down  a  winding  turret  into  the  servants' 
hall  (where  our  appearance  caused  great 
consternation),  up  again  into  high  liie  — 
up,  up,  and  yet  liiLcher  up,  into  the  I)aclie- 
lor's  towers — nothing  sacred  from  our 
invading  feet  —  laughing,  shrieking,  bark- 
ing, stumbling  along;  at  one  moment 
fancying  that  we  liad  gained  upon  the 
hare,  and  that  another  vigorous  etFort  would 
run  lier  to  earth ;  nay,  even  catching  a 
glimpse  of  her  sea-green  garments  at  the 
farther  end  of  a  corri(ior,  and  giving  a 
"  tally-ho  !  "  thereupon,  that  rung  through 
the  castle,  — but  only  to  find,  at  the  end, 
that  she  had  doubled  upon  us,  through  a 
suite  of  rooms,  and  was  farther  from  us 
than  ever. 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


99 


Ko  sot  of  schoolboys  ever  iii'lul'jjed  in  a 
madder  chaso  ;  and  when  I  rellcctt'd  after- 
wards, in  cooler  moments,  that  I  was  very 
much  the  youngest  man  present,  and  that 
three  out  of  the  six  ladies  were  married,  it 
did  seem  a  sinj!;ular  diversion  ibr  persons 
of  such  mature  years. 

The  clock  in  the  hall  was  just  striking 
the  three  quarters  as  we  followed  the 
paper-track  down  the  great  stairs  once 
more,  to  the  drawing-room,  where  we  knew 
that  the  hare  mu>t  have  ariived,  trium- 
phant at  her  speed  having  baffled  pursuit. 
But  one  or  two  of  the  foremost  hounds  were 
now  fairly  out  of  breath;  and  the  excite- 
ment of  the  pursuit  being  over,  they  lagged  a 
good  deal  as  we  trooped  across  the  hall.  I 
was  fourth ;  and  when  the  drawins-room 
door  was  thrown  open,  my  eyes  fell  upon  a 
tableau  which  was  not  calculated  to  acceler- 
ate the  speed  of  our  foremost  hound,  — 
Mrs.  Hartman  Wild. 

There  stood  Lady  Ancastar,  panting, 
scarlet  from  her  exertions,  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  her  face,  her  hair  rumpled, 
her  lace  flounces  torn,  her  arms  scratched, 
a  more  undignified  figure,  a  more  deplora 
ble  contrast  to  the  marble  goddess  I  had 
been  admiring  an  hour  ago,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  imagine.  And  beside  her  —  alone, 
with  a  silver  bed-candlestick  in  her  hand, 
stood  the  duchess,  rigid,  inexorable,  terri- 
ble to  behold.  Not  a  hair  of  lier  head 
was  ruffled  ;  the  stiff  crepus  curls  stood 
carved  round  her  fice  as  if  nothing  short 
of  an  axe  could  dissever  them  ;  the  folds 
of  her  moire  antique,  every  separate  point 
of  her  black  lace,  were  exactly  where  they 
ought  to  be,  and  where  they  had  been  since 
the  beginning  of  time.  She  was  close  to 
her  daughter-in-law ;  and  she  had  been 
speaking  to  her,  —  of  that  tliere  could  be 
no  doubt.  Lady  Ancastar's  face,  usually 
so  stolid,  showed  some  discomposure  ;  ami 
Her  Grace's  thin,  drawn-in  lips  told  me 
that  they  had  jus(  uttered  some  sharp  and 
trenchant  reproof  But  she  was  far  too 
well-bred  to  make  us  party  to  any  family 
scene:  she  was  silent  as  we, entered,  turn- 
ed, and  eyed  us,  one  by  one,  as  we  poor 
hounds  slunk  in,  so  to  speak,  with  our  tails 
between  our  legs.  U[)on  the  luckless  Mrs. 
Ilartman  AVild,  as  foremost,  fell  the  duch- 
ess's only  words,  like  sharp  little  hail-dr(ips, 
after  a  nunute's  pause. 

"I  should  think  you  must  be  tired,  Mrs. 
Hartman  Wild, — you  look  so, — and  per- 
haps will  not  object  to  going  to  bed  now." 

With  that  she  stalked  into  the  gallery, 
and  we  all  followed.  There  stood  the  vir- 
tuous ladies  whose;  steps  had  not  been  led 
astray  over  the  castle,  each  with  a  bed 
candlestick  in  her  hand,  like  the  seven  Miss 
Flamboroughs  with  their  oranges  ;  or,  as 


Ancastar  said,  "  like  the  wise  virgins  with 
their  lamps,  only  in  this  case  it  is  they  who 
are  sleepy,  and  the  foolish  ones  who  are  so 
very  wide-awake  !  " 

I  looked  roiuid  for  Madame  d'Arnheim, 
but  she  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXTY. 

The  next  day  the  frost  was  harder  than 
ever,  and  the  ice  on  the  lake  was  pronoimced 
to  be  some  inches  thick.  Those  who  had 
not  brought  skates  sent  in  by  a  messenger 
to  the  large  neighboring  town  to  procure 
them.  Among  these,  at  my  urgent  request, 
was  Madame  d'Arnheim. 

'•  But  I  never  put  on  a  pair  but  twice  in 
uiv  life,"  she  objected.  "  I  cannot  skate  a 
bit." 

"  Never  mind.  You  shall  be  my  pupil. 
You'll  see  how  quickly  you  get  on." 

By  twelve  o'clock  we  were  all  down  on 
the  ice,  and  a  pretty  sight  it  was,  —  the 
flower-like  knots  of  brilliant  ladies,  among 
whom  Lady  Ancastar,  in  a  costume  whicli 
was  a  combination  of  an  Esquimaux  and  a 
"  Crncovienne,"  was  the  most  conspicuous  ; 
and  the  lithe  dark  figures  of  men  gliding 
over  the  polished-steel  ice,  powdered  wltli 
silver,  which  glittered  m  the  winter  sun, 
as  the  skates  cut  their  way,  leaving  fantas- 
tic figures  on  the  agate-like  surf  ice  behind 
them.  The  frame  that  bound  this  picture 
was  banks  of  frozen  grass,  above  which 
rose  dark  masses  of  wood,  fringed  with  a 
delicate  tracery  of  branches  against  the 
clear-swept  sky.  The  wind  had  done  its 
work  up  there,  driving  every  little  cloud 
befoi-e  it,  in  its  passage  from  the  north ; 
and  now  it  was  so  still  that  not  a  dead  leaf 
stirred  upon  the  frozen  lake,  but  as  it  fell 
it  lay. 

Madame  d'Arnheim's  pliant,  well-bal- 
anced figure  rested  upon  feet  which  were 
not  the  ideal  of  an  artist  perhaps,  but  the 
perfection  of  agrandedame,  — -  long,  elastic, 
slender-ankled.  She  was  not  nervous  ;  and 
with  the  help  of  my  hand  she  got  on  rap- 
idly. 

"  It  is  really  very  pleasant,"  she  said, 
looking  up  into  my  face  with  a  sn'iile.  "  I 
have  not  enjoyed  myself  so  much,  I  don't 
know  when. 

"  And  you  look  all  the  better  for  it  —  you 
have  (juite  a  color.  Now,  then,  strike  out 
more  with  your  left  foot." 

She  did  so,  but  S(jme  little  inequality  in 
the  ice  caught  her  foot ;  and,  before  I  could 
save  her,  she  fell  —  very  ligtitl}-.  however. 

"  I  am  not  the  least  hiu-t,"  and  she 
scrambled  on  her  feet  nimbly;  "but  it 
seems  to  me  there  are  too  many  spectators 


100 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


just  here  to  go  on  exposinfj  my  awkward- 
ni's.s.  Could  we  not  get  to  some  quieter 
corner  ?  " 

'•  By  all  means.  Several  stran^jers,  T  see, 
have-  appeai-ed  on  the  scene.  I  hear  that 
the  duke  has  given  all  the  country  houses 
round  leave  to  come  and  skate  here.  I 
dare  say  in  the  afternoon  the  lake  will  be 
crowded." 

We  doubled  a  tongue  of  land,  on  the 
farther  side  of  wliith  we  were  screened  — 
at  ail  events,  from  the  great  mass  of  non- 
skiiters,  though  a  path  ran  round  the  lake, 
which,  of  course,  commanded  every  corner 
of  it.  Here  the  lesson  went  on  steadily 
enough  for  nearly  an  hour. 

•■  I  like  your  friend,  Lord  Tufton,  very 
nuich,"  she  said,  as  we  glided  cautiously 
along.  '"Hearing  he  was  such  a  gambler, 
I  expected  a  very  different  sort  of  man." 

*'  He  has  given  up  play,  I  am  happy  to 
sax',  entirely.  That  love  of  speculation, 
V,  aich  is  ineradicable  in  some  men,  is  turned 
now  into  a  lietter  channel.  He  is  devoting 
himself  to  all  sorts  of  farming  experiments 
on  his  new  estates.  He'll  probably  lose 
money,  but  that  doesn't  signify.  The  land 
and  the  tenants  will  both  benefit ;  and  he 
will  buy  his  experience." 

'•  He  is  very  handsome ;  but  he  is  not 
what  is  called  '  a  lady's  man,'  I  see.  He 
talked  very  little  to  any  one  last  night.  Is 
he  a  woman-hater  V  " 

"  Honestly  speaking,  I  am  afraid  he  is 
rather  inclined  to  underrate  women.  He 
has  never  been  in  love,  you  see.  Whenever 
he  is,  it  will  be  a  serious  matter." 

"  Lady  Castle  comes  to-day,  I  hear.  Who 
knows,  perhaps  he  will  succumb  to  her  ?  " 

I  laughed  aloud. 

"  You  little  know  Tnfron.  To  begin  with, 
he  knows  her ;  and  then  she  is  the  last 
person  to  attract  him.  By  the  by,  have 
you  heard  that  Lady  Ancastar  is  trying  to 
cet  up  some  tableaux  for  to-night,  or  to- 
morrow  .' 

"  The  duchess  spoke  of  it  just  now  ;  but 
they  are  put  off  till  later  in  the  week. 
There  is  not  time  to  get  them  up  to-night ; 
and  to-morrow  is  the  ball." 

••  And  the  duchess  makes  no  objec- 
tion ?  " 

*•  On  the  contrary.  Tableaux  were  the 
great  fashion  in  her  day  ;  and  she  considers 
them  a  comme-il-f aut -dmuxment,  —  better 
than  steeple-chasing  over  the  castle,  as  half 
her  guests  did  last  night." 

"  That  is  a  hit  at  me ;  but  what  could  I 
do  when  Lady  Ancastar  proposed  it  ?  1 
should  have  seemed  a  horrid  prig  if  I  had 
refused." 

"  I  don't  blame  you." 

"  You  look  as  if  you  did.  Of  course  one 
must  do  what  the  rest  do  in  such  a  case." 


"  Excuse  rac,  I  don't  think  that.  I  like 
people  who  are  indepiMidciit,"  —  here  slie 
let  go  my  hand,  and  tried  to  get  on  alone, 

—  '*  who  are  not  guided  entirely  by  others, 
who  choose  their  own  path  for  tliemselves, 
and  pursue  it,  regardless  of —  Ah  !  " 

She  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  as  her  feet  went 
from  under  her  ;  and,  before  I  could  save 
her,  she  was  lying  doubled  up  upon  the 
ice. 

"  That  comes  of  being  too  independent," 
r  said,  laughing.  "  But  you  are  not  hurt, 
I  hope?" 

She  did  not  attempt  to  ri^e. 

'•  I  am  afraid  I  have  sprained  my  ankle 

—  it  gives  me  such  pain." 

"  Let  me  take  off  your  skates,  then,  at 
once.  Don't  move ;  "  and  I  knelt  down  be- 
side her  on  the  ice,  and  began  unbuckling 
the  straps  round  her  pretty  feet. 

"  It  was  very  foolish  of  me,"  she  sighed, 
with  a  faint  smile, "  and  I  am  properly  pun- 
ished. I  was  so  conceited,  I  thought  I 
could  get  on  without  you." 

•'  I  should  rather  say  you  were  so  plucky, 
you  tried  to  carry  your  theories  into  prac- 
tice, which  isn't  always  to  be  done." 

"  I  have  to  do  it  alw.iys.  There  is  small 
merit  in  that.  I  am  used  to  walk  my  own 
road,  you  know,  which  makes  one  dread  to 
become  dependent  upon  any  one  —  in  anv 
way." 

'•  Well,  pride  must  have  a  fall,"  I  replied, 
willing  to  appear  to  ignore  the  application 
of  her  words ;  "  and  you'll  have  to  lean 
much  more  heavily  on  me  now,  in  order  tu 
walk  at  all,  I  am  ali^aid.  Don't  atteinf)t  to 
stand  on  that  foot :  let  me  lift  you  up." 

'•  She  was  very  light.  I  put  my  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  raised  her ;  but  she 
was  obliged  to  cling  to  my  shoulder,  for  as 
soon  as  her  foot  touched  the  ground,  she 
found  it  impossible  to  rest  her  weight  upon 
it.  I  saw  by  her  face  that  she  was  in  pain. 
She  became  very  pale,  and  leant  her  head 
back  upon  my  arm  for  a  moment. 

"  Shall  I  put  you  down  on  the  ice  again, 
while  I  go  off  for  a  chair  ?  1  can  push  )  ou 
along  in  one  to  the  bank." 

"  No,  no.  —  don't  leave  me.  In  a  min- 
ute or  two  I  shall  be  able  to  limp  along. 
It  was  only  the  first  moment  of  standing. 
It  is  nothing." 

I  heard  the  sound  of  voices  near  us,  and 
looked  up.  About  fifty  yards  off,  on  the 
edge  of  the  lake,  four  ladies  were  walking; 
they  were  not  of  the  castle  party  ;  their 
dress  and  general  outline  I  did  not  recog- 
nize ;  but  their  faces,  tightly  veiled  from 
the  sharp  north  wind,  it  was  impossible  to 
see.  One  was  tall  and  very  slight :  I  just 
saw  so  much  in  the  hasty  glance  I  gave 
them.  They  were  walking  slowly  along, 
and  their  faces  were  turned  in  our  direc- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


101 


tion.  It  occurred  to  me  that  they  had.  per- 
haps, driven  here,  and  that  I  might  ask 
them  to  allow  their  carriatre  to  convey 
Madame  d'Arnheim  to  the  castle  ;  but  Just 
as  tliis  idea  struck  me,  and  I  was  thinkini^j 
how  I  could  carry  it  into  execution,  Tuf- 
ton  came  skating  round  the  little  point 
of  land  which  concealed  us  from  the  greater 
part  of  the  lake,  and  I  called  to  him.  After 
explaiuin;^  the  state  of  the  case,  I  begged 
him  to  see  if  he  could  procure  some  con- 
veyance for  ]Madame  d'Arnheim,  who  was 
quite  imfit  to  walk  as  far  as  the  castle.  He 
skated  away,  and  I  watched  him  approach 
the  three  ladies,  ami  take  otfhis  hat.  Then 
one  of  them  held  out  iier  hand ;  there  was 
an  evident  recognition  between  her  and 
Arthur. 

'*  It  is  ]\Irs.  Hawksley,"  he  said,  on  his 
return  to  us.  "  She  has  driven  over  from 
her  place  near  this,  and  will  desire  her  car- 
riage to  drive  to  that  corner,  where  the 
road  comes  close  to  the  lake.  You  can 
walk  so  far,  I  hope  V  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  faintly,  '-I  can  walk  so 
for." 

"  A  surgeon  should  see  your  ankle." 

"  Yes,""l  returned  quickly.  "I  will  tell 
D'Arnheim.  I  will  send  for  one,  if  you  will 
remain  here,  Arthur." 

"  No,  no,  —  neither  Carl  nor  the  surgeon, 
please  ;  one  is  as  unnecessary  as  the  other. 
Arnica  and  cold  water  is  all  I  want.  Karl 
would  vote  it  a  dreadful  bore.  Husbands  do 
not  care  about  their  wives'  sprained  ankles." 

"  Perhaps  that  depends  on  the  ankles," 
said  Tufron,  ti-ying  to  treat  the  remark  as 
mere  badinacje ;  ''  in  which  case  Count 
d'Arnheim  cannot  be  indifferent." 

"  Men  never  care  for  what  belongs  to 
them.  If  it  is  anybody  ehe's,  — yes,  there 
is  interest  enough,  and  to  spare." 

(We  had  been  watching  D'Arnheim  and 
Mrs.  Ilartman  Wild  flying  over  the  ice  to- 
gether for  the  last  hour.) 

"  You  are  hard  on  the  institution  of  mat- 
rimony," said  Arthur,  a  little  dryly,  as, 
with  the  help  of  our  two  arms,  she  limped 
to  the  bank. 

"  Not  on  the  institution,  —  ach,  no  !  " 
she  sighed.  "  What  in  this  world  can  com- 
pare with  the  union  of  two  souls  in  perfect 
love  ?     But  it  is  so  rare." 

We  had  now  reached  the  spot  where  the 
barouche  was  waiting.  The  owner  was 
not  there.  After  lielping  jMadame  d'Arn- 
lieira  into  the  carriage,  Arthur  returned  to 
the  skaters,  and  I  accomj)anicd  my  poor 
friend  to  the  house,  that  I  might  give  her 
my  arm  across  the  hall  and  u[)  the  great 
stairs.  On  our  load  we  passed  the  Ladies 
Pynsent  and  Walter  Selden,  who  stared 
W(jnderingly  into  the  carriage.  I  saw  the 
latter  smile. 


I  wasrettirning  to  the  ice,  when  the  gong 
for  luncheon  sounded,  and  I  saw  most  of 
the  party  coming  up  the  terraces.  The 
ground  here  is  steep,  and  to  avoid  a  long 
flight  of  steps,  beneath  the  lower  terrace, 
broad  pathways  lead,  to  right  and  left,  by 
a  gradual  descent,  to  the  lake.  I  leant 
over  the  balustrade,  half  concealed  by  a 
Cuba-laurel,  clipped  orange  tree  fashion  ; 
so  that,  unless  the  groups  ascending  the 
slope  immediately  beneath  me  were  minded 
to  glance  up,  they  were  unaware  of  my 
proximity,  while  every  word  they  uttered 
reached  me  distinctly,  upon  tjhe  frosty  air. 

I  recognized  the  duchess's  sharp  tones 
even  before  I  saw  her. 

"  Xo  lady  in  my  day  ever  skated,  and  I 
think  it  a  most  unbecoming  exhibition." 

"  Particularly  in  a  married  woman  of  her 
age,"  struck  in  Ladv  Louisa  Pvnsent. 

"  I  must  say  it  serves  her  right,"  contin- 
ued Her  Grace  severely. 

''  Oh  !  I  don't  think  she  is  much  hurt" 
sneered  the  aciil  spinster.  "  We  met  them 
driving  to  the  ca>tle  just  now,  looking  very 
.comfortable,  —  and  I  hear  she  was  actually 
lying  in  his  arms  upon  the  ice',  —  too 
shocking,  —  really  !  " 

''In  his  arms?  Impossible!  So  quiet, 
so  well-conducted  as  she  always  seems  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  well-conducted. 
Did  you  see  the  way  she  was  going  on  with 
him  last  night  ?  And  last  season  they  say 
she  went  on  in  a  very  odd  way  with  this 
boy.  He  was  there  every  day  of  his  life. 
The  husband  encourages  it,  I  am  told,  that 
he  may  amuse  himself  in  his  own  way  !  " 

The  speakers  passed  on,  and  I  lost  the 
duchess's  rejoinder.  I  stood  petrified. 
Poor  innocent  Madame  d'Arnheim  to  be  so 
traduced!  Words  cannot  paint  my  rage, 
^ly  impulse  was  to  face  this  hag,  and  charge 
her  with  uttering  the  basest  calumnies. 
Fortunately  my  better  sense  came  to  my 
aid.  What  could  I  say  V  The  actual /aci 
was  not  to  be  denied  ;  Madame  d'Arnheim 
in  her  faintness  had  been  supported  by  me, 
and  her  head  had  lain  upon  my  shoulder; 
it  was  the  tone  in  which  Lady  Louisa  had 
spoken  which  was  so  injurious  to  my  friend  ; 
and  would  not  my  championship  do  her 
more  harm  than  good  ?  It  was  her  hus- 
band's pi-ovince  to  defend  her ;  but  she 
might  wait  long  enough  for  that. 

While  debating  how  I  shoidd  act  under 
the  circumstances,  I  heard  two  men's 
voices,  which  I  recognized  as  Selden's  and 
Tufton's.  They  were  coming  up  the  lower 
slope,  in  animated  discussion. 

"I  tell  you  it  is  all  nonsense,"  said  Ar- 
thur. 

"  Hm  !  '  Still  waters  run  deep,' "  sneered 
his  cousin. 

"  But  the  waters  in  this  case  are  any 


102 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


tliiivj  l>ut  still.  She  is  a  pushing,  si-nti- 
incntal  (jerman,  —  you  don't  understand 
the  sort  of"  woman." 

"  Yon  must  he  greener  than  I  take  you 
to  lie,  Arthur,  if  you  believe  all  tliis  is  Pla- 
tonic." 

•'  1  am  any  thinix  hut  'screen  '  aV)out  wo- 
men. Ferha])s  1  tiiink  too  ill  of  them  <j;en- 
erally. —  hut  I  don't  believe  there  is  any 
harm  in  this  one.  I  don't  care  i'or  those 
'  femmes  incomprises  '  myself;  but  Pen  has 
conceived  a  boy's  enthusiastic  friendship  tor 
a^  woman  nmcli  older  than  himself  and  has 
always  been  boriufjj  me  to  know  her.  There 
is  nothing  more  in  it  than  this,  I  am  cer- 
tain." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  blame  her.  With  such 
a  husband  as  d'Arnheim,  I  think  she  is 
quite  ri'j,ht,  —  only  she  nii'^ht  have  found 
somethinsx  better  than  that  youni;  jacka- 
napes. She  has  a  deuced  good  foot  and 
ankle!" 

I  was  furious.  It  was  too  bad  !  It  had 
never  occurred  to  me  that  my  intimacy 
with  Madame  d'Arnheim  could  be  so  mis- 
construed. She  was  so  unlike  the  women 
of  wiiom  I  heard  such  things  said  every 
day,  that  it  seemed  hard  she  should  not  be 
allowed  one  friend,  —  so  much  her  junior 
that  she  could  lecture  him  with  all  a  moth- 
er's freedom,  —  -ixhen  she  bore  her  wrongs 
and  sorrows  with  such  uncomplaining  dig- 
nity !  It  was  shameful! — it  was  incon- 
ceivable !  I  bo:led  over  with  indignation, 
and  stamped  about  the  garden  for  half 
an  hour,  more  perplexed  than  ever  what  to 
do. 

Should  I  speak  openly  to  D'Arnheim  him- 
self ?  No  :  I  knew  too  well  the  cold  sneer 
wiih  whii.-h  he  wouLl  receive  my  communi- 
cation, and  assure  me  that  he  was  not  in 
the  least  jealous.  Let  the  world  talk  — 
what  did  it  matter?  It  would  talk  about 
something;  and  he  had  perfect  confidence 
in  ine.  There  was  no  use  in  looking  for 
hel|)  in  that  direction. 

I  would  consult  Arthur.  Though  he  did 
not  appreciate  Madame  d'Arnheim  as  she 
deserve!,  he  was  just  and  clear-sighted,  as 
regarded  her,  and  showed  always  the  in- 
terest of  an  elder  brother  in  me. 

Luncheon  was  nearly  over  when  I  enter- 
ed the  dining-room.  I  slipped  into  a  chair 
beside  Lady  Ancastar.  'The  conversation 
was  apparently  about  some  new  beauty, 
whose  name  1  did  not  catch :  and  mv  fair 
neighbor  remarked  that  "  she  seemed  to 
have  a  scraggy  figure  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  her  lord,  with  his  mouth 
full,  *'  if  you  were  diplomatic,  Car,  you'd 
swear  she  was  the  loveliest  creature  you 
ever  beheld.  Freshness,  you  see,  is  every 
thing.  The  girl's  got  the  dew  of  the  morn- 
intr  oo  her  still." 


"Jove!"  cried  Selden,  "how  poetical! 
Ancastar  wants  to  play  the  part  of  the 
sun." 

"  He  has  my  full  liberty,"  said  La<ly  An- 
castar, with  a  laugh.  "  If  Miss  Hawks- 
ley  "  — 

"  SIk;  is  not  Miss  Hawksley.  That 
dreadful  woman  never  gave  birth  to  this 
divinity.  I  forget  the  name  Mrs.  Hawks- 
ley  told  me,  but  the  girl  is  to  come  out  to- 
morrow night ;  and,  if  all  you  fellows  don't 
fall  dep)erately  in  love,  you  are  made  of 
ice!" 

"  What  a  pity  you  are  not  free !  "  tittered 
his  wife. 

"  Well,"  lie  replied  demurely,  while  he 
peeled  an  apple,  "as,  unfortunately,  I  am 
not,  I  did  llie  next  best  thing  for  her  I 
could,  in  promising  IMrs.  Hawksley  to  in- 
troduce a  friend  of  mine,  —  a  Manchester 
man,  worth  a  couple  of  millions.  What  do 
you  think  she  had  the  conscience  to  say  ? 
—  that  she  '  wanted  blorjd  ' !  Sanguinarv 
idiot !  " 

"  From  what  I  could  see  of  her  face 
through  a  thick  Veil,"  said  Arthur  to  Lady 
Ancjistar,  "  she  looked  to  me  ratlier  like 
the  girl  in  Millais'  '  Huguenot.'  Could 
you  not  get  up  that  among  your  ta- 
bleaux?"' 

"  And  how  abmit  the  man  ?  That  is  the 
difhculty.  The  girl's  mammal  should  think 
would  object." 

"  Oh  !  you  had  better  get  Penruddocke 
to  do  it,"  saiil  her  incorriu^ible  lord  ;  "  Ppu- 
ruddocke  and  Madame  d'Arnheim.  They 
were  rehearsing  the  attitude  just  now,  — 
they'll  do  it  to  perf(2Ction." 

"  Call  that  rehearsal  ?  What  must  p<.'r- 
formance  be  !  "  said  Selden,  not  so  low  but 
tliat  I  cau2;ht  the  words. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  blun- 
dered out,  with  flaming  cheeks,  "  about 
rehearsing  attitudes.  I  —  I  —  helped  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim  up,  and  "  — 

"  Never  mind  them,  Mr.  Penruddocke," 
giggled  Lady  Ancastar :  "  it  was  Xkiry 
graceful,  —  very  graceful  indeed  !  " 

"  Penruddocke  is  no  Huguenot,  but 
Catholic  in  his  devotion  to  the  lair  sex."  in- 
terposed Arthur  readily,  seeing  that  I 
needed  a  friend  to  the  rescue  ;  "  and  I  ad- 
mire him  for  it,  having  so  little  chivalry  in 
my  own  composition." 

"  No  one  can  say  /  am  not  chivalrous," 
said  Ancastar.  "  I  am  Koiny;  in  tor  the 
'  Ri'ihts  of  Women  '  and  '  Female  Suffrage.' 
I  hope  when  I  get  upon  my  legs  in  the 
House,  the  image  of  my  wife  with  a  vote 
won't  rise  up  and  choke  me  ! " 

"  I  am  sure,  if  1  were  your  wife,  /  should 
choke  you.  Lord  Ancastar,"  cried  Mrs. 
Ilartman  Wild ;  and  then  there  was  a 
"eneral  rise  from  the  table. 


PENEDDDOCKE. 


103 


I  took  Arthur's  arm,  and  drew  hiiu  away. 
In  a  corner  of  the  library  I  poured  out  my 
tale  of  indignation,  and  asked  him  what 
I  should  do.     Should  I  go  to  the  duclu^ss  ? 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  replied.  "  What 
could  you  say  ?  It  would  be  making  your- 
self ridiculous,  and  placing  Madame  d'Arn- 
h^im  in  a  false  position.  You  ought  to 
know  something  of  the  world,  my  dear 
Fen,  by  this  time.  If  you  are  much  with 
any  woman,  it  will  talk,  —  you  must  know 
that." 

"  Well,  I  certainly  am  not  going  to  let  it 
interfere  with  my  friendship  with  Madame 
d'Arnheim,"  said  I  hotly. 

"  By  all  means  ;  only  don't  complain,  in 
that  case,  of  its  gossip." 

Madame  d'Arnheim  was  not  well  enough 
to  appear  at  dinner.  The  count  was  de- 
voted to  Mrs.  Hartman  Wild  all  the  even- 
ing ;  but,  as  I  heard  Lady  Louisa  Pynsent 
observe,  "  it  is  his  way,  you  know,  —  he  is 
alwnys  like  that,  —  it  means  nothing." 
This  was  the  worlil's  justice!  But,  unh'ss 
I  was  much  mistaken,  the  way  in  which 
D'Arnheim's  eyes  followed  the  handsome 
Creole's  every  movement,  indicated  more 
than  a  passing  atti'action. 

Lord  and  Lady  Castle  and  Mrs.  Chaf- 
finch arrived  that  evening.  Laily  Castle 
looked  ill ;  but  I  had  no  conversation  with 
her.  She  seemed  on  the  most  affectionate 
terms  with  her  husband.  CouM  it  be  that 
she  had  "  turned  over  a  new  leaf?  "  1  was 
undeceived  by  Tufton. 

'•  Walter  Selden  says  that  Lady  Castle 
and  Benevento  have  had  another  row,  — 
worse  than  ever  this  time,  and  that  she  has 
behaved  very  badly.  That  is  his  version 
of  it." 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

After  breakfast,  the  next  day,  the  frost 
turned  to  rain.  It  came  down  in  that  deli- 
cate, noiseless  way  which  indicates  continu- 
ance all  day.  Some  men  went  out  shooting, 
nevert  heless  ;  others,  with  D'Arnheim,  Sel- 
den, Tufton,  and  myself,  repaired  to  the 
billiard-room, 

A  match  between  D'Arnheim  and  Selden 
was  going  on.  The  betting  had  been  pretty 
even  at  first,  for  both  were  admirable 
players ;  but,  after  a  few  strokes,  it  was 
clear  that  the  German  was  not  "  in  good 
form  "  this  morning. 

"  Five  to  four  on  Selden." 

A  knot  of  ladies,  among  whom  was  INIa- 
dame  d"Arnheim,  entered  the  room  at  this 
inonient.  They  were  come  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  the  day  by  watching  the  play. 
1  had  not  seen  my  Iriend  since  the  previous 


morning  :  she  leant  upon  a  stick,  but  did 
not  seem  very  lame.  I  joined  her,  and 
found  a  seat  near  her  on  tlie  settee,  Mrs, 
Ilartman  Wild  was  next  to  her,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  me  sat  the  incorrigible  Mrs, 
Chaffinch, 

"  It  is  but  fair  that  I  should  have  my  re- 
venge," said  Selden,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
score,  after  two  clever  strokes.  "  You  re- 
member how  you  licked  me  into  fits  that 
last  time  at  Richmond," 

"  And  he'll  do  it  again,  now  that  the 
ladies  have  come  in,  if  you  don't  look  sharp, 
Selden,"  said  old  Jack  Ilorton.  "  D'Arn- 
heim requires  the  eyes  of  beauty  to  inspire 
him,  you  know," 

"  Yes,  —  and  tliey  always  distract  me, 
confound  it !  which  shows  how  much  more 
I  really  care  for  them  than  he  does," 

"  That  is  another  way  of  saying  that  our 
room  is  better  than  our  company  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Chaffinch, 

"  Pray,  whose  were  '  the  eyes  of  beauty  ' 
that  shone  on  you  both  at  Richmond  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Hartman  Wild,  with  a  laugh. 

"  The  barmaid's,  I  suppose,"  said  D'Arn- 
heim quickly.  He  had  just  missed  his 
stroke,  and  turned  away, 

"  I  d<jn't  believe  it !  I  am  sure  it  was 
'  Nine-Pins,'  or  some  lovely  creature  of 
that  sort.  Now,  be  honest,  wasn't  it,  Sir 
Walter  ?  " 

" '  Je  u'ose  pas,  pour  un  empire,  vous  la 
nommer  ! '  "  hummed  Selden,  lookin.;;  up  at 
the  lady,  after  making  a  carrom,  with  an 
amused  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  You  were 
not  in  town,  Mrs.  Wild,  or  we'd  have  asked 
you  to  join  our  Richmond  party  ;  but  it 
was  in  October,  and  you  wei'e  in  Scot- 
land." 

D'Arnheim  became  scarlet. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Selden,  —  it  was 
in  July," 

I  saw  that  he  was  trying  to  catch  Selden's 
eye,  whose  back  was  now  towards  us.  Ap- 
parently he  faileil ;  for  our  antagonist  per- 
sisted obstinately,  as  he  would  certainly 
not  have  done  had  he  known  all  that -de- 
pended on  his  silence. 

"  Wrong,  my  dear  fellow.  I  happen  to 
remember,  for  it  was  my  birthday,  —  7th 
October." 

D'Arnheim  played  ileliberately  ;  but  his 
hand  shook,  and  he  missed  his  stroke.  He 
then  walked  roiuid  the  table,  ostensibly  to 
chalk  his  cue;  but  he  brushed  very  close 
to  Selden, 

"  1  was  in  Hungary  in  October ;  so  I  as- 
sure you,  you  are  mistaken." 

Selden  paused  a  moment, 

"  Ah  1  well  —  yes  —  perhaps  so.  It  may 
have  been  in  July.  It  was  Alverstoke,  I 
remember  now,  I  played  with  in  Octo- 
ber." 


104 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  Delightful  !  "  screamed  Mrs.  Chaffinch. 
"  Xo\v,  I  ciill  that  actiiTj;  really  like  a 
fiienil !  Uiitbrtunately,  I\Ir.  Alverstoke 
was  with  us  in  tin;  IIij;hlan(ls  in  October." 

"  Certainly,  D'Arnheini,  I  could  swear  I 
saw  you  in  London  in  October,"  said  An- 
castar,  who  never  lost  the  ojiportunity  of 
addin;:;  to  any  one's  discomtbrt,  from  his 
wife  downwards,  and  did  so  as  though 
it  were  a  matter  of  principle.  "Yes,  I  am 
positive  I  j)assed  you  twice  in  a  hansom." 

"  Ah  !  likenesses  are  very  deceptive. 
You  are  really  mistaken,  —  I  was  in  Ger- 
many." 

"  D'Arnheini  has  a  double,"  said  Selden. 
"  I  have  ol'tcn  met  him,  and  taken  him  at 
first  sight  for  our  friend  here." 

Mrs.  Chaffinch  shouted  with  laughter. 

"  Even  to  the  point  of  playing  billiards 
■wiih  him.  How  very  ready  of  you.  Sir 
Walter,  to  come  to  the  count's  rescue  in 
that  way  !  He  was  drowning,  he  was  sink- 
ing rapidly,  when  you  held  out  that  hand. 
13ravo  !  Isn't  it  fun,  dear  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim,  to  see  men  floundering  in  this 
way  ?  We  manage  our  prevarications  so 
much  better." 

My  poor  iriend's  face  had  become  white  ; 
but  she  replied  with  perfect  calmness,  — 

"  We  did  not  return  from  Germany  till 
November,  so  Lord  Ancastar  must  be  mis- 
taken." 

"  And  are  you  sure  you  never  lost  sight 
of  him,  my  dear?  Ah!  well,  we  won't 
press  the  point ;  but  we  have  a  right  to 
ask  who  the  lady  was,  haven't  we  Mrs. 
Wild? — the  lady  who  presided,  like  Mi- 
nerva, over  these  games  in  July  ?  Have 
you  confounded  her,  as  well  as  the  date,  Sir 
Walter  ?  " 

"  I  did  confound  hc>r  at  the  time  ;  for  she 
made  me  lose  the  game  by  chattering  to 
me." 

"  The  wretch  !  That  is  meant  for  me. 
I  am  shut  up.  I  shall  not  open  my  lips 
again." 

"  And  they  have  never  told  us  who  it 
was  !  "  pouted  the  Creole  beauty.  "  That 
is  the  way  of  getting  out  of  it." 

"  There  is  nothin<i;  '  to  sret  out  of,' " 
laughed  D'Arnheini,  who  had  regained  his 
composure.  "  It  was  Mrs.  Ward,  the 
American.  I  have' not  seen  lier  since  that 
day." 

'•  Ha,  ha  !  I  should  be  surprised  if  you 
Lad,''  said  Mrs.  Chaffinch.  "  This  is  de- 
lightful !  Why,  the  Wards  left  England 
in  May.  Better  luck  to  you  the  next  time 
you  invent,  count !  " 

"  You  see  how  little  impression  the  lady 
made  dTl  either  of  us,"  said  Selden,  "  that 
we  have  really  forgotten  who  it  was.  Now, 
had  it  been  you,  or  Mrs.  Hartman  Wild," — 

"  Ob !   connu,  mon  cher,  that  is  too  old  a 


story,  —  a  very  lame  way  of  getting  out  of 
a  scrape." 

"  Of  course,  every  compliment  to  you, 
Mrs.  Chaffinch,  ifs  an  old  story ;  but  you 
wouldn't  deprive  a  ftillow  of  such  an  inno- 
cent irratification  ?  " 

"  When  lie  has  so  few  !  What  wretches 
men  are,  Madame  d'Arnheim  !  No  trust- 
ing one  of  them  !  If  it  wasn't  for  our 
little  revenges,  life  would  be  unendurable, 
wouldn't  it?  " 

But  Madame  d'Arnheim  had  reached 
the  door  ;  and,  as  her  back  was  turned  to 
Mrs.  Chaffinch,  she  apparently  thought  it 
unnecessaiy  to  reply.  I  sprang  forward 
to  open  the  door  ;  and  then,  catching  sight 
of  her  face,  I  offered  her  my  arm,  for  I 
really  was  afraid  she  would  faint. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  ns,  she  leant 
back  against  the  wall  of  the  corridor,  and 
jiressed  both  her  hands  to  her  eyes.  An 
inward  sob  convulsed  her  frame,  and  ihe 
long-controlled  passion  found  a  momentary 
vent  in  words :  — 

"Blind!  blind!  AcJi !  da  lieher  Golt! 
—  treachery  and  falsehood  !  —  nothing  but 
treachery  and  falsehood  !  How  much  long- 
er can  it  last  ?  " 

She  forgot  that  I  was  beside  her  ;  she 
forgot  every  thing,  until  a  door  opening 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  gallery  roused 
her.  She  withdrew  her  quivering  hands 
from  her  face,  took  my  arm,  and,  by  a 
great  effiDrt,  dragged  herself  along ;  but 
it  was  hardly  possible  that  her  agitation 
should  escape  notice.  Her  whole  frame 
shook,  the  burning  tears  still  trembled  on 
her  eyelids;  and,  to  my  disgust,  I  saw  i^, 
was  Lady  Louisa  Pynsent  who  approached. 
She  stopped  us,  ostensibly  to  m:d<e  a  chilly 
infjuiry  for  the  countess's  sprained  ankle,  — 
in  i-eality,  as  I  felt  sure,  for  the  purpose  of 
prying  into  my  poor  friend's  face.  Madame 
d'Arnheim  murmured  that  she  did  not  feel 
well,  and  was  going  to  her  room.  At  the 
top  of  the  stairs  she  dropped  my  arm  with 
a  little  silent  nod,  and  limped  on  alone.  1 
saw  her  no  more  till  the  evening. 

Nor,  strange  to  say,  did  I  see  Lady 
Castle,  who  appeared  neither  at  breakfast 
nor  luncheon ;  until,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  rain  cleared  off,  I  beheld  her,  to 
my  surprise,  walking  arm-in-arm  with  her 
husband  on  the  terrace.  Of  course  I  took 
care  not  to  interrupt  the  tcte-a-tele.  The 
wife's  way  of  gazing  up  into  her  pale  com- 
panion's fice  seemed  to  indicate  perfect 
confidence  and  well-ordered  affections. 
He  had  rather  a  moth-eaten  look, — with 
his  spectacles  and  stooping  shoulders,  he 
might  have  passed  for  a  kindly  f)edagogue, 
and  she  (at  a  little  distance),  for  his  youu"- 
and  favored  pupil. 

What  a  strange  couple  ! 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


105 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

There  are  occasions  when  all  the  wo- 
men of  one's  acquaintance,  bv  some  coinci- 
dence, shine  their  very  brightest ;  and  the 
ball  at  Kendal  Castle  was  one  of  those  rare 
occafions,  as  I  well  remembi-r.     Lady  Cas- 
tle, to  my  thinking,  had   never   looked  so 
well.     The   color    she    wore    became   her ; 
her    face,  which  was  apt  to  be    too    much 
flushed,  was  pale ;  the  diamond  net  which 
held  her  hair   revealed    the    lovely  shape 
of  her  head,  which  I  used  to  see  concealed 
undi'T  some  vast   pyramid    oi  friset.tes  and 
flowers.     Madame  d'Arnheim,  too,  whom  I 
sometimes   accused  of  despising  personal 
appearance  too  much,  had  ibr  once  taken 
evident    pains    with   hers.     Why,  on  this 
particular  night,  it  puzzled  me  at  the  time 
to  account  for.     Perhaps  I  could  do  so  bet- 
ter now  ;  but  it  is  sufficient  to   remember 
that  it  was   written   in  the    book  of    fate 
that    these  two   women   should   appear  to 
unusual  advantage  on  this  cccasion.     Mad- 
aiiie  d'Arnheim  wore,  for  the  first  time,  cer- 
tain   old    Bohemian  jewels   of  rare  value, 
lately   be(^ueathed    to   her.     The    massive 
firclet  for  the  head  and  waist,  the  throat- 
collar  and  pendants,  somewhat  barbaric  as 
they  were,  distinguished  their  wearer  more 
eti'ectively  than    all  the  contents  of  Hunt 
and  Ruskell's  could  have  done.     The  long 
•lines   of  her  graceful  figure  were  seen   to 
the  utmost  advantage  in  some  dark  flowing 
drapery,  which  contrasted  with  all  the  bril- 
liant-tinted   gossamers    of   the    ball-room. 
She  sat  the   whole  night  in   a  deep  bay- 
window,  where  the  light  was   softened   by 
palms  and  other  exotics,  against  which  the 
whiteness  of  her  shoulders,  and  her  lumi- 
nous iiiir  hair,  told  well  —  but  I  am  getting; 
on  too  fast. 

My  dinner  was  dull  enough.  I  took  in 
one  of  the  Tenbv  girls,  and  tried  to  get 
something  out  of  her ;  but  it  was  updiill 
work,  though  scarcely  less  fatiguing  than 
the  jolting  rattle  of  the  cabinet  minister's 
wife  on  my  other  side,  which  might,  in  dis- 
tinction, be  designated  as  a  rapid  descent, 
from  which  there  was  no  pulling  up  into 
the  dismal  swamps  of  bahlerdash.  Lord 
Castle  sat  next  but  one  to  me.  I  had 
never  s[)ok(m  to  him  before,  but  when  we 
"  closed  up  "  after  dinner,  we  talked  ;  and 
I  found,  rather  to  my  surprise,  how  agree- 
able a  man  he  was.  He  looked  physically 
weak  —  was  he  morally  so  V  I  could 
hardly  doubt  it,  knowing  all  I  did  ;  yet  the 
upper  part  of  the  face  was  intellectual,  and, 
though  the  lines  of  the  mouth  were  j)liant, 
they  were  not  undecided.  His  voice  and 
manner  were  gentle  —  a  little  too  gentle, 
perhaps,  to  jjlease  me  ;  but  what  he  said 


showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  refimnl  taste, 
of  considerai)le  cultivation,  and  with  an 
unusual  felicity  in  expressing  his  ideas. 
He  said  his  health  and  inclination  alike 
ilisposed  him  to  a  quiet  country  life,  but 
added  that  of  course  he  could  not  impose 
this  on  Lady  Castle.  She  naturally  ])re- 
f'erred  London,  and  he  was  very  glad  she 
should  amuse  herself  there  during  a  certain 
number  of  months.  All  that  be  bargained 
for  was  not  to  be  obliged  to  go  too.  This 
kind  of  thing  —  the  staying  out  in  coun- 
try-houses—  was  quite  out  of  his  line  ;  but 
Lady  Castle  had  persuaded  him  to  break 
through  his  rule  for  once,  and  to  accom- 
pany her.  As  to  the  ball,  he  certainly 
could  not  stand  that  —  he  should  go  to  bed. 
One  thing  he  said  struck  me  much.  I  re- 
marked that  a  country  life  must  be  a 
change  for  Lady  Castle  —  did  she  visit  a 
great  deal  ? 

"  Oh,  no ! "  he  replied,  with  a  smile, 
"  very  little  ;  and,  with  the  exception  of 
one  or  two  of  her  friends  occasionallv,  we 
see  but  few  people  at  home.  I  dare  say 
you,  like  many  others,  fancy  that  my  wife 
is  nothing  but  a  fine  London  lady,  who 
only  cares  for  dissipation  ?  You  should 
see  her  in  the  village,  with  her  school  and 
her  poor  people.  She  is  the  most  domes- 
tic creature  possilile  when  we  are  alone." 

I  stared,  —  inwardly,  that  is  to  say.  I 
was  provoked  with  the  man  ;  and  yet  I 
could  not  help  feeling  both  a  pity  and  a 
liking  for  him. 

The  carriages  had  begun  to  set  down 
some  of  the  company  before  we  left  the 
dining-room.  I  was  surprised  to  see  Tuf- 
ton,  generally  so  indifferent  on  such  occa- 
sions, evince  an  interest  in  the  arrivals. 
He  posted  himself  near  the  door  of  the  ball- 
room, where  he  could  see  and  hear  each 
person  announced  who  entered,  and  he 
wanted  me  to  take  up  a  similar  position  ; 
but  I  was  more  anxious  to  seek  out  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim,  with  whom  I  had  not  ex- 
changed a  word  since  the  morning.  I 
looked  round  the  saloon,  but  could  not  see 
her,  and  was  moving  on  to  the  other  recep- 
tion-rooms, when  Lady  Castle  stopjied  me. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Penrud- 
docke.  Will  you  take  a  turn  with  me  be- 
fore the  rooms  (ret  crowded  '.■'  " 

Something  in  her  manner  struck  me  as 
peculiar.  I  gave  her  my  arm,  and  we 
walked  on.  She  began  at  once,  in  a  low 
voice. 

'•Mr.  Penruddocke,  I  am  going  to  do  a 
very  odd  thing.  I  don't  know  what  3-ou 
will  think  of  me." 

She  stopped  ;  and,  as  I  was  at  a  loss  what 
to  say,  I  remained  silent.      She  continued. 
"  I  want  your  advice.     I  am  in  the  most 
painful  position.     I  feel  that   1  can  trust 


106 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


you,  anil  you  are  the  only  man  here  1  would 
trust.  Youii'j;  as  }ou  are,  I  have  implicit 
confitlenee  in  you." 

"I  am  miieh  flattered  by  your  gon<l  opin- 
ion," 1  blurted  out,  wondering  what  was 
cominy;. 

'•  Yes,  you  are  a  man  of  honor,  and  you 
are  prmUmt;  and,  above  all,  you  know  what 
love  is.  Your  conduct  iu  your  own  ailairs 
shows  that  you  have  true  delicacy  of  feelin;r 
for  a  certain  person.     I  know  all  ab(jut  it." 

"  Upon  my  lite,  it's  more  than  I  do !  I 
haven't  an  idea  what  you  mean.  I  have 
no"  — 

"  Oh  !  of  course  you  will  deny  every 
thiu'j.  I  never  expected  you  to  make  a 
conjidante  of  me,  —  why  should  you  ?  Be- 
sides, you  would  never  talk  of  this  to  any 
one,  I  am  sure.  It  is  my  own  affairs  I 
want  to  speak  of.  I  am  in  a  most  difficult 
position ;  and  there  is  no  one  here  I  would 
so  soon  ask  an  opinion  of  as  yourself.  As 
to  a  woman,  I  would  never  trust  one." 

I  said  bluntly,  — 

"  There  is  certainly  one  woman  here  — 
perhaps  several  —  who  would  give  you  bet- 
ter advice  than  I  can,  Lady  Castle  I  have 
but  little  knowledge  of  the  world  at  pres- 
ent; and  though  I  hope  your  confidence  is 
not  ill-placed,  it  seems  to  be  tbunded  on 
something  or  other  which  exists  only  in 
your  imagination.  I  do  know  what  love  is, 
but  I  assure  you,  solemnly,  there  is  no 
secret,  no  mystery  in  it.  VV^hat  1  feel  all 
the  world  may  know." 

She  smiled,  and  nodded  her  head. 

"  Your  denial  is  useless.  I  know  much 
more  than  you  think ;  but  let  that  pass. 
To  come  to  myself —  Castle  tells  me  just 
now  he  has  made  your  acquaintance,  and 
likes  you.  I  am  so  glad.  If  you  knew 
how  good  he  is !  So  much  too  good  for 
such  a  wretch  as  I  am  !  Unfortunately  he 
does  not  know  what  love  is  ;  he  never  did. 
Ho  is  very  fond  of  me  in  his  own  way, 
and  lu!  has  the  most  awfully  blind  trust  in 
me,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  If  he  was 
jealous,  I  should  not  have  such  self-re- 
proach ;  but,  you  see  —  wait,  let  me  tell 
you  my  history  in  a  few  words,  that  you 
may  better  understand  me.  Let  us  sit 
down  here.  I  was  married  when  I  was 
seventeen,  without  knowing  any  thing  of 
the  world.  I  had  a  dream  of  what  love 
was  to  be,  —  as  all  girls  have, —  and  I  sup- 
posed it  would  come  after  marriage  ;  but 
the  fact  is,  we  were  neither  of  us  in  love, 
as  I  soon  found  out.  My  husband  was 
not  the  sort  of  person  I  ought  to  have 
married.  Some  women,  I  dare  say,  would 
have  asked  for  nothing  more  than  he  had 
to  give ;  but  I  required  a  very  different 
man,  —  one  who  would  have  ruled  me. 
even  had  it  been  severely,  but  to  whom  I 


could  have  felt  I  was  necessary,  part   of" 
his    existence.      It    was  just    the    reverse. 
Castle  has  always  been  too  indulgent,  too 
anxious  that  I  should  do  exactly  as  I   like ; 
but  I  gradually  got  to  feel  that  I  was  not 
the  least  necessary  to  his  life,  and  I  felt  a 
want  in  mine.     You  can  guess  the  conse- 
cpience  ?     I  went  into  the  world,  and   had 
a  great  deal  of  nonsense  talked  to  me.     At 
first  I  cared  for  no  one,  and  only  went  out 
pour  me   dis'rnire.     At   last,  I   suppose  I 
ought  to  say  utifirrtunatebj,  I  met  the   no- 
blest and  truest  man  I  have  ever  known, 
one  who  would  have  sacrificed  every  thing 
to  me  if  I  had  allowed  him.     He  remained 
faithful  to  me  six  years,  and  then  it  was   / 
who  gave  him  up.     His  family  wished  him 
to  marry  his  cousin,  a  charming   girl,  of 
large  fortune,  who  was  in  love  with  him. 
I  resolved  not  to  stand  in  the  way.      Well, 
since  that  time,  though  I  have  often  been 
culpably   foolish,    I    admit,    I    have    never 
really  cared  for  any  one^  until  in  an   evil 
hour  I  met  Cesare  Benevento.      From   the 
first  moment  I  saw  him,  I  felt  the   man's 
power,  and  he  knew  it.     He  pretended  to 
be  devoted  to  me ;  and,  like  a  fool,  I  be- 
lieved him.     Then  began  a  terrible    time 
for  me :   I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  I 
eared  for  this  wretch,  in  spite  of  all   the 
proofs  I  gradually  had  of  his  heartless  and 
mercenary  nature.     It  was  an  infatuation  : 
I  can't  explain  it  in   any  other  way.      We 
often  had   quarrels :   I  often   tried   to  free 
myself  from  a  chain  which  I  felt  to  be  de- 
grading; but  it  was  useless.    He  pretended 
that  he  had  given  up  his  profession,  and 
sacrificed  his  life  to  me  ;  and  this  he  maile 
the  jilea  for  draining  me  of  every  farthing 
I    could    give   him.     If  I   told   him   I   was 
over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  and  really  had 
not  wherewith  to  supply  his  reckless  ex- 
travagance, he  made  a  scene,  declared  he 
would  shoot  himself,  that  his  death  would 
be  at  my  door,  and  so  on  ;   but  my  spirit 
latterly   was   roused,   when    I    learnt    that 
what  he  got  from   me  he  either  (ram'jled 
away,  or  spent  upon  other  women.     And 
now   he  has  taken  a  new  line.     He    has 
kept  all  my  letters,  it  seems,  since  I  first 
knew  him,  three  years  ago,  and  he  threat- 
ens to  forward  them  to  Castle,  if  I  don't 
send  him  money  !  " 

"  The  infernal  blackguard  !  "  I  burst  out ; 
"but  it  is  impossible  he  could  do  such  a 
thing.  Of  course,  it  is  only  an  idle  thn»at, 
none  the  less  cowardly  for  that.  What 
could  he  gain  by  carrying  it  into  execu- 
tion ?  " 

"  This :  he  thinks  he  would  extract  the 
price  of  those  letters,  and  of  his  silence, 
from  Castle ;  and  he  is  right.  It  would 
probably  kill  my  poor  husband,  this  reve- 
lation ;  but  he  would  do  any  thing  to  save 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


107 


niv  roputation,  though  at  the  same  tune 
(f  know  him  well),  he  would  never  see  me 
a^nin  if  he  lived  for  years.  You  are  sur- 
prised, you  think,  perhaps,  so  careless  a 
husband  would  not  mind  much  ?  but  you 
are  mistaken.  He  has  the  highest  sense 
of  truth  and  honor.  He  trusts  me  uupli- 
citly  ;  if  he  once  found  he  had  been  de- 
ceived, it  would  be  all  over  between  us. 
What  on  earth  am  I  to  do  ?  Unless  I  sell 
uiy  jewels,   1    have    no    means    of  raising 


money  to  send  him;  and  besides,  a  few 
months  hence,  it  would  bo  the  same  story 
over  again.  Do  advise  me !  Do  tell  me 
what  i  ought  to  do,  for  I  am  really  half 
dead  with  fright  and  anxiety  1  I  get  one  of 
this  wretch's  letters  every  two  or  three 
days,  and  each  one  is  more  peremptory 
than  the  last." 

"  You   have   not    seen    him    then,   late 
ly  ?  " 

"  Not  since  October." 
Then  I  remained  silent  for  some  min- 
utes, considering  what  I  should  say.  We 
had  seated  ourselves  in  one  of  the  empty 
rooms;  and  of  the  few  people  who  had 
strolled  in,  no  one  had  interrupted  our 
te'e-a-lele.  I  happened,  in  this  pause,  to 
turn  my  head  towards  the  door,  and  saw 
two  ladies  retreating.  The  first  was  al- 
ready passin'j;  out  of  siy;ht ;  in  the  second 
I  reco'^nized  Mrs.  Hawksley. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  I  said,  at  last,  "  that 
there  are  two  courses  open  to  you,  but  one 
of  them  I  doui)t  your  adopting." 
'^  What  is  it?" 

"To  be  beforehand  with  this  scoundrel, 
and  make  a  clean  breast  of  every  thing 
to  your  husband." 

"  Impossible  1 "  she  replied  instantly  — 
"quite  impossible.  I  would  sooner  die 
first !  Poor,  dear  Castle  !  Any  thing  rath- 
er than  that." 

"  riie  other  course  is  this.  Write  to 
the  fellow  tor  the  last  time,  saying  that, 
after  the  use  he  proposes  making  of  your 
letters,  you  must  decline  all  further  corre- 
spondence, and  that  ids  letters  will  be 
returned  unopened  ;  that  you  have  placed 
the  alfiur  in  the  hands  of  a  friend,  who 
vill  comnmnicate  personally  with  him  in 
the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  and  then  you 
must  ajjpoint  some  man  in  whom  you  have 
conlidence  to  negotiate  this  matter  for 
you." 

"  But  how  ?  What  can  he  do?  " 
"1  think  the  fellow  may  be  intinudated 
into  giving  up  your  letters,  when  he  has  a 
man  to  deal  with,  who  tells  him  plainly 
that  he'll  kick  him  out  of  society  if  he 
doesn't  instantly  yield  them  up." 
She  shook  her  head,  with  a  sigh. 


"  There  is  no  one  I  could  ask." 

"Why  not  Sir  Walter  Selden  ?  He 
knows  Benevento  better  than  anv  one, 
and  "  — 

"  Oh !  I  hate  that  man.  I  would  not 
trust  him  for  the  world." 

"I  cannot  say  I  like  him;  but  he  is  a 
thorough  man  of  the  world;  knows  exactly 
what  ought  to  be  done  under  such  circum- 
stances. I  fancy  he  could,  and  would, 
force  this  scoundrel  into  giving  up  your 
letters." 

"  Oh !  I  couldn't  speak  to  him  on  the 
subject.  I  know  he  has  spoken  of  me  to 
Cesare  in  terms  any  woman  would  resent. 
He  is  the  last  man  I  would  ask  to  be  my 
friend  in  this  affair." 

•'  And  is  there  no  other  man  of  standing 
in  society  to  whom  you  can  apply  ?  You, 
who  are  surrounded  by  friends  and  admir- 
ers !  What  an  idea  you  must  have  of  the 
world  ! " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  There  are  women  who  have  a  right  to 
look  for  chivalrous  devotion.  I  suppose  I 
have  none.  There  is  not  one  of  these  men 
iiere  who,  if  I  applied  to  him  for  help,  would 
not  fancy  that  —  that  I  was  in  love  with 
him,  in  short !  " 

"  Well,"  I  said  with  energy, "  I'm  young 
and  inexperienced,  and  not  the  sort  of  man 
best  suited  to  this  embassy  in  many  ways ; 
but  if  you  choose  to  trust  me.  Lady  Castle, 
I'll  undertake  it." 


"  Dear  buy  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
pressed  my  hand,  and  wiped  away  her  tears, 
"  you  are  worth  all  of  them  put  together ; 
but  I  will  not  drag  you  into  this  mire  for 
me,  and  nothing  was  further  from  my 
thoughts  when  I  asked  your  advice.  In- 
deed, what  you  suggest  never  occurred  to 
me.  I  will  try  and  think  of  some  one  "  — 
and  she  stopped. 

"  Remember,  if  you  find  no  one  better, 
I'll  do  it.  He  and  I  know  one  another. 
Though  I  f;iiled  to  convict  him  of  cheating, 
when  we  had  that  row,  he  knows  I'm  a 
rough  customer,  and  perhaps  will  mind  me 
a  little  more  than  most  fellows  of  my  stand- 
ing." 

"  Lady  Castle  1  "  cried  young  Ashridge, 
running  in  at  this  moment,  "  you  promised 
me  the  first  quadrille,  and  it  is  begun  I 
don't  know  how  long  !  " 

'•  Has  it  V  " 

She  rose  slowly,  looked  at  herself  in  the 
pier-glass  opposite,  and  arranged  her  tuck- 
er, took  the  eager  boy's  arm,  and,  while  she 
uttered  some  commonplace,  turned  her  head 
and  nodded  to  me,  with  one  of  those  tender, 
expressive  glances  which  had  proved  dan- 
gerous to  so  many. 


108 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


"  I  HAVE  been  lookin<jf  for  you  everv- 
•where,"  I  said,  when,  at  the  end  of  a  (quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  I  discovered  Madame 
d'Arnheim  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  the 
window  I  have  already  described. 

"  You  brushed  past  me  nearly  an  hour 
aso."  she  said  (juierly.  Somehow  the  tone 
of  her  voice  sounded  ditferent  from  what  it 
generally  did  in  my  ears.  "  But  you  were 
too  much  en;j:rossed  to  see  me,  though  you 
actually  trod  upon  mv  dress." 

"  Did  I  ?  I'm  awfully  sorry  !  "  (I  felt 
myself  coloring.)  "  Well  —  yes  —  the  fact 
is,  I  was  listening  to  something  Lady  Cas- 
tle was  telling  me,  and  "  — 

''  And  vou  were  so  engrossed  vou  had  no 
eyes  for  any  thing  else.  So  I  saw.  You 
are  just  like  all  men,  I  see." 

"  Y'^ou  are  angry,  because  I  had  a  few 
minutes'  conversation  with  Lady  Cas- 
tle ?  " 

"  A  few  minutes  !  I  like  that.  You  were 
certainly  in  that  farther  room  more  than 
half  an  hour;  and  I  hear  your  interview 
•was  a  very  moving  one.  No,  I  am  not  an- 
gry ;  I  am  disappointed  to  find  you  so  very, 
t'firy  weak  —  that  is  all.  I  had  deluded 
myself  into  hoping  you  were  not  so.  I  was 
mistaken." 

'•  You  certainly  are  mistaken,  if  you 
return  to  that  old  ridiculous  idea  that  there 
is  a  flirtation  between  me  and  Lady  Castle 
—  poor  woman  !  " 

"'Poor  woman!'  Much  to  be  pitied, 
truly  !  It  reallj'  makes  one  sick  !  These 
are  the  women  who  meet  with  all  the  sym- 
pathy in  the  world  !  " 

"  You  know  that  is  not  the  case  as  re- 
gards me"  I  replied  quietly.  "  The  sym- 
pathy I  feel  for  your  trials,  though  I  seldom 
venture  to  express  it,  the  admiration  and 
pity,  are  unmingled  with  a  reproach.  I 
think  you  simply  the  best  woman  I  have 
ever  known,  and  Lady  Castle  one  of  the 
most  unfortunate." 

"  And  pray  why  ?  AVhy  is  she  more 
unfortunate  than  any  other  ill-conducted 
wife  ?  "  she  pursued,  with  still  some  degree 
of  irritation. 

"  Because  she  is  unfortunately  constituted, 
to  begin  with,  has  been  badly  educated, 
anil,  having  made  an  unsuitable  marriage, 
has  no  legitimate  interests  in  life." 

"  The  worse  people  are,  the  more  they 
are  to  be  pitied,  in  one  sense,"  she  replied  ; 
"  but  when  you  look  around,  and  see  what 
other  women  have  to  suffer,  I  do  not  see 
why  one  is  to  be  lenitmt  to  a  woman  like 
Lady  Castle,  whose  married  life  has  been  a 
succession  of  intrigues." 

"  I  dare  say  she  would  have  been  a  good 


wife  if  she  had  married  a  different  sort  of 
man." 

"  As  men  go.  Lord  Castle  is  a  Phoenix," 
she  said,  with  a  bitter  smile.  ''  I  am  sure 
he  has  never  told  or  acted  a  lie.  He  is  true 
to  his  wile,  and  only  too  indulgent.  Pray 
do  you  think  many  of  us  are  so  fortunate  ? 
Would  she  have  been  better  if  she  had 
married  a  man  whose  whole  life  was  one  of 
cruel  ne»ilect  and  systematic  deceit  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  say  that  ;  but  I  do  believe 
that  many  a  worse  man  might  have  made  a 
better  husband  for  hnr.  She  is  not  a  wo- 
man of  intellect,  she  has  no  children,  and 
she  needs  strong  affections, —  wants  to  feel 
herself  the  necessity  of  some  one's  life.  Had 
Castle  been  passionately  jealous  of  her,  she'd 
have  been  all  right  —  if  he'd  had  a  hundred 
faults,  instead  of  being  the  cold,  calm,  trust- 
ing husband  he  is." 

"  Your  knowledge  of  woman's  nature  is 
much  enlarged  since  I  first  knew  you."  she 
said,  with  a  touch  of  sarcastic  vehemence. 
"  Y'our  arguments  in  defence  of  your  friend 
are  specious  ;  but  to  any  woman  who  has 
suffered  as  I  have,  and  who  respects  her- 
self thuy  seem  miserably  weak.  What 
would  become  of  us  all,  if  we  accepted  such 
excuses  as  these  ?  " 

"  Tiials,  you  must  remember,  depend 
upon  temperament.  What  are  trials  to  one 
would  not  be  so  to  another." 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  temples. 
"  Do  you  think  my  nature,  then,  so  cold 
that  I  cannot  sutFer  from  neglect  —  that  I 
never  long  to  be  '  a  necessity  to  some  one's 
life  '  ■?  You  know  too  much  of  what  I  have 
to  endure  ;  and  yet  not  half —  ach  1  not 
half  I  This  UKjrning  you  —  all  who  listened 
to  those  men  —  must  have  seen  what  I  did, 
—  that  Carl  had  deceived  me  by  pretend- 
ing to  be  in  Vienna,  while  he  had  come 
over  to  England  to  visit  his  mistress.  It  is 
Ijut  one  drop  more  in  my  cup,  which  was 
full  enough  before,  God  knows  !  And  you 
talk  to  me  of  Lady  Castle's  trials  !  " 

"I  never  thought  of  comparing  them 
with  vours  for  a  moment.  It  was  you  who 
did  that." 

"  But  you  are  right  —  though  I  am  not  a 
stone,  as  you  seem  to  think." 

"  Dear  Madame  d'Arnheim  —  " 
"  Do  not  interrupt  me.  Yes  !  Natures 
are  different ;  and  what  you  please  to  ex- 
cuse in  her  would  be  inexcusable  in  me, 
just  because  I  know  what  love  is,  and  feel 
far.  far  more  deeply  than  such  a  woman  can. 
Ach!  du  lieber  Go/t  ! ''  she  cried,  clasping 
her  hands.  "  Such  amours  resemble  real 
love  as  —  as  a  succession  of  muddy  pools 
resemble  the  pure  sky  darkly  reflected 
there !  " 

She  looked  like  the  picture  of  some  suffer- 


in^:   saint  I  had  seen,  one   of  the "  noble 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


109 


army  of  martyrs,"  as  she  continued,  after  a 
lew  moments'  pause,  with  raised  eyes  and 
qnivoi'inij;  lips. 

"  I  brlieve  in  self-sacrifiee  here,  in  the 
endeavor  to  do  our  duty,  however  mueli  we 
may  sutler,  and  I  beUeve  tliat  our  best  af- 
fections will  survive  the  sorrows  of  this 
world.  '  Durch  Schatten  nach  dem  Licht.' 
If  I  did  not  believe  this,  I  should  go  mad. 
But  aet  like  this  woman  —  never,  never  ! 
1  could  understand  the  open  renunciation 
of  every  tie  for  one  —  I  should  grieve,  but 
I  could  feel  for  her,  then,  —  but  the  life 
that  is  one  lon.2;  lie,  and  for  a  succession  of 
lovers  —  it  is  horrible  !  I  have  no  pity  for 
that." 

"  I  don't  defend  her ;  but  I  can  t  help 
feeling  for  a  woman  whose  conduct  has 
certainlv  brought  its  own  punishment  with 
it." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  stammered,  "  I  suppose'  no 
woman  in  her  position,  but  must  feel  "  — 

"  She  has  been  making  you  her  confi- 
dant !  "  said  my  friend,  coming  down  upon 
me  like  a  falcon.  "  She  has  got  you  into 
her  toils,  and  you  will  be  ruined  I  I  knew 
it ;  I  saw  it  all  along  !  " 

"  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor." 

'•  Honor  ?  Pshaw  !  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  I  heard  just  now?  Two  ladies 
passed  me,  one  of  whom  said,  '  It  confirms 
what  I  told  you  about  him  and  Lady  Cas- 
tle last  spring  !  It  is  very  shocking  in  a 
mere  boy,  such  wholesale  profligacy ! ' 
The  other  murmured  something  alaout 
'  poor  dear  Lady  Rachel '  as  she  passed  on, 
which  removed  any  doubt  as  to  whom  they 
were  talking  aliout,  Now,  this  is  what  the 
world  ssiys,  —  this  is  what  will  be  carried 
to  your  mother  !  " 

"  If  you  only  knew  half  it  chooses  to 
say,"  I  began  vehemently,  "  you  would  — 
well,  you  would  know  that  no  one  is  safe 
from  malevolence.  As  to  what  is  told  my 
mother,  enough  mischief  lias  been  done  al- 
ready :  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  be- 
lieve every  thing  bad  she  hears  of  me  —  so 
I  can't  help  it," 

"  But  you  can  help  giving  people  grounds 
for  gossiping  about  you  at  all,"  said  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim  earnestly.  I  almost  start- 
ed, as  I  thought  of  the  application  those 
words  might  bear  to  herself.  "  You  are 
standing  on  the  very  brink  of  a  precipice. 
Be  warned  by  me,  ere  it  is  too  late.  If  you 
see  much  of  Lady  Castle,  on  nnjj  pretence 
vhotdver,  you  will  rue  it  some  da}'.  Have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  her  Promise  me 
this,  if  you  care  for  me  at  all." 

She  leant  forward,  and,  laying  her  hand 
on  my  arm.  looked  eagerly  into  my  face  for 
the  reply  she  wanted  to  extract 

But  as   she  uttered  those  last   words  I 


heard  the  rustle  of  a  gown  behind  my  chair  ; 
for  my  back  was  turned  to  the  loom, 
and  I  could  not  see  any  one  who  passed. 
But  my  name  was  uttered,  —  uttert;d  by  a 
man's  voice  that  I  recognized  as  Ai'thur's, 
and  I  turned  quickly  round.  I  started  up, 
as  if  I  had  been  shot.  Two  figures  were 
moving  away.  The  man  was  Arthur,  the 
girl  in  white  upon  his  arm  was  Evelyn. 
There  was  no  mistaking  her.  In  spite  of 
the  great  change,  development  of  the  child 
into  the  woman,  I  had  not  a  moment's 
doubt  about  it.  She  was  very  tall ;  the 
face  was  much  longer,  the  features  more 
formed  ;  her  hair,  which  used  to  hang  over 
her  shoulders,  was  coiled  tightly  round  her 
head,  and  had  Q-rown  some  shades  darker ; 
but  the  eyes  remained  unaltered,  —  those 
sot't  lustrous  brown  eyes,  from  which  I 
caught  one  startled,  saddened  look,  before 
she  passed  thorugh  a  door-way,  and  was 
lost  in  the  crowd  beyond. 

I  stood  there  petrified  for  a  moment  or 
two. 

"  ^Vliat  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  my  com- 
panion. 

"I  must  leave  you  —  you  will  excuse 
me,  won't  you  V  " 

"  Oh  !  by  all  means." 

"  There  is  some  one  here  whom  I  must 
see  at  once  ?  Shall  I  take  you  to  the  ball- 
room ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  which  re- 
curred to  me  long  afterwards,  "  I  am 
accustomed  to  be  left  alone.  Do  not  think 
of  me.     I  prefer  remaining  here." 

I  flew  off,  without  giving  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim another  thought.  I  was  in  a  fever  of 
excitement.  How  came  Evelyn  here  V 
Why  did  she  not  speak  to  me  ?  What  did 
that  look,  so  full  of  sad  meaning,  portend? 
Had  she  heard  and  misapprehended  those 
last  words  of  Madame  d'Arnheim's  — "  if 
you  care  for  me  at  all  ?  " 

The  first  question  was  answered,  even 
as  I  revolved  these  (juestions  over  in  my 
mind.  There,  in  the  doorway  of  the  ball- 
room, stood  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  with  Mrs. 
Hawskley.  My  cousins,  then,  were  stay- 
ing with  this  hateful  woman  —  it  was  them 
I  had  seen  and  not  recognized  through 
their  thick  veils,  on  the  ice  ;  and  Evelyn 
was  the  beauty  I  had  heard  discussed. 
Then,  followed  rapidly  upon  this  revela- 
tion, another  conviction  flashed  upon  me, 
—  that  Mrs.  Hamleigh  and  Mrs.  Hawskley 
were  the  two  ladies  whose  words  concern- 
ing me  Madame  d'Arnheim  had  overheard. 
It  was  an  adverse  conjunction  of  circum- 
stances, which  boded  me  no  good. 

I  carefully  avoided  Evelyn's  mother.  I 
passed  into  the  ball-room  by  another  door, 
and  sought  Evelyn,  but  for  some  time 
without  success. 


110 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


As  is  commonly  the  case  at  balls,  there 
vt'i'e  many  more  girls  than  partners  for 
tlicm.  Plialanxi'S  of  youn<^  maidens,  in 
(h-esses  new  for  the  occasion,  blocked  the 
doorways  and  corners  of  the  room,  eyin^ 
wi^tt'iiUy  tiie  couples  who  floated  past,  and 
tlunkin;j;  no  doubt  that  this  jj;ran(l  "  Castle 
Ball,"  whieh  was  the  great  social  event  of 
the  year  to  the  entire  neighborhood,  was, 
after  all,  not  half  so  pleasant  as  those  little 
unpretending  dances  where  the  competi- 
tion was  more  in  proportion  to  the  demand. 

"  Are  you  engaged  V  "  said  Lady  Ancas- 
tar,  panting  from  the  waltz,  as  I  passed 
her.  "  If  not,  do  be  good-natured,  and 
trot  out  one  of  those  girls  in  pink.  They 
haven't  danced  to-night ;  and  their  father 
is  one  of  Ancastar's  most  influential  constit- 
uents." 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I'm  engaged  ;  " 
and  I  hurried  on. 

My  eyes  wandered  over  the  crowd  as  I 
stood  behind  old  Lady  Tenby,  whose 
daughters  were  not  dancing  ;  and  I  heard 
her  say,  — 

'•  Really  too  bad  !  Lord  Tufton  dancing 
with  that  girl  three  times  running  ;  and, 
after  all,  I'm  sure  /  see  nothing  in  her. 
But  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see  you  mak- 
ing yourself  so  conspicuous,  my  dear 
Laura." 

By  dint  of  a  gentle  persistence,  I  pushed 
my  way  round  to  where  I  caught  sight  of 
Arthur's  handsome  face,  beaming  with  un- 
usual animation,  and  a  small  head  close  to 
him,  whose  coil  of  dark  chestnut  hair  I  rec- 
ognized, though  the  face  was  turned  from 
me.  Then,  just  as  I  was  within  a  few 
yards  of  them,  he  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  they  waltzed  off.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  knew  what  a  pang  of  jeal- 
ousy was.  It  was  silly,  unreasonable,  1 
lelt ;  but  so  it  was. 

After  a  turn  or  two  they  stopped,  vevy 
nearly  in  the  same  place;  but  this  time 
Evelyn's  face  was  towards  me.  For  two 
or  three  minutes  I  stood  watching,  without 
attempting  to  interrupt  them  ;  and  I  saw 
that  others  watched  them  too.  Is  she 
happy  ?  Is  her  head  turned  by  her  suc- 
cess ?  Has  she  actually  forgotten  me  ? 
were  the  questions  that  tortured  me  as  I 
scanned  the  sweet  young  countenance  that 
looked  up  at  Arthur  every  now  and  then 
with  a  smile  ;  and  then  across  which  an 
absent  look  would  pass  like  a  cloud,  until 
chased  away  by  some  observation  of  his. 
I  noted  that  she  said  but  little  herself  — 
she  listened,  she  laughed  once  or  twice  at 
the  grotesque  dancing  of  a  couple  to  which 
Tufton  drew  her  attention  ;  but  the  far-off, 
wistful  expression  came  back  into  her  eyes 
a  moment  alter.  No,  my  darling  has  not 
yetforgot^ten  «iQe,  I  said  to  my  beating  heart, 


as  the  waltz  came  to  an  end  ;  and  moving 
forward  a  few  paces,  I  held  out  my  hand  to 
her. 

Though,  of  course,  she  was  prepared  for 
our  meeting,  the  blood  rushed  into  her 
face,  and  tlnv small  gloved  hand  she  gave 
me  trembleil  ;  but  there  was  no  smile,  no 
welcome  :  a  deep  sadness  reigned  in  the 
large  brown  eyes  that  were  bent  upon  me  ; 
and,  for  a  moment  or  two,  neither  of  us 
spoke. 

'•  It  is  strange  our  meeting  like  this,  isn't 
it?  "  I  began  at  last ;  "  and  you  are  grown 
such  a  tali,  grand. young  ladv.  I  was  afraid 
for  a  moment  you  would  forget  me,  E\elyn. 
Miss  Ilamleigh  and  Fare  cousins,  Arthur." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  surprised  to  see 
me,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  Su!prised  is  no  word  for  it.  But  come 
and  take  a  turn  with  me.  AVe'll  go  into  the 
tea-room,  and  you'll  dance  the  next  qua- 
drille with  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  T  am  engaged,  Osmund." 

"  Throw  the  fellow  over,  whoever  he  is." 

"  But  the  fellow  has  no  idea  of  being 
thrown  over,"  laughed  Tufton. 

"  You  !  Come,  that's  too  bad,  Arthur. 
But,  at  all  events,  my  cousin's  going  into 
tea  with  me  now.  You  must  come  and  find 
her  there  presently." 

She  hesitated,  I  saw,  for  one  moment ; 
then,  yielding  to  the  impulse  of  lici-  heart, 
she  placed  her  hand  upon  my  arm  without 
a  word.  I  smiled  and  nodded  to  Arthur, 
and  we  left.  him.  I  gave  myself  great 
credit  for  having  controlled  my  feelings  so 
successfully  before  a  third  person.  As  soon 
as  we  were  out  of  the  crowd,  I  said,  — 

"  This  is  the  happiest  moment  I  have 
had,  Evy,  since  I  wished  }ou  good-by 
from  the  branch  of  the  old  ehn-tree.  I'm 
afraid  you  can't  say  as  much  :  you  don't 
seem  as  glad  to  see  me." 

I  felt  her  hand  tremble  on  my  arm. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  glad  or 
sorry.     I  wish  "  —  and  here  she  stopped. 

'•  What  ?  Look  here  :  I've  lots  to  say 
to  you,  and  lots  to  a>^k  of  you.  There  has 
been  no  end  of  lying  about  me,  Evelyn  ;  and 
I  want  to  explain  many  things  to  you  which 
it  is  no  use  telling  your  mother.  She  won't 
listen  ;  she  has  made  up  her  mind  not  to 
believe  me,  I  know.  We  haven't  time 
now,  but  you'll  keep  all  the  dances  you 
have  disengaged  for  me,  dearest  Evy,  won't 
you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  sigh.  "  I 
cannot  keep  one,  Osmund." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  your  mother  has 
made  you  promise  not  to  dance  with  me  ?  " 

''  Yes  ;  and  she  would  be  very  much  an- 
noyed if  she  thought  I  was  walking  about 
with  you  now." 

"  Why  V     By  Jove  !  such  tyranny  is  in- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


Ill 


tolerable  !  What  on  earth  have  I  done 
tliat  we  are  to  be  separated  completely  in 
this  way  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured,  looking 
down. 

"  After  being  brought  up  together,  Evy, 
isn't  it  hard  I  should  be  kept  more  aloof 
than  any  stranger  you  meet  here  to-night 
fur  the  first  time  ?  " 

'•  Ah  !  "  she  said,  looking  up  sadly  into 
my  eyes,  "  but  you  are  changed  —  you  are 
not  the  same  Osmund  I  loved  as  a  child. 
Yon  are  so  different  —  oh  !  so  different 
from  what  I  fancied  you  could  ever  be  !  " 

"  You  mean  in  appearance,  for  you  can 
know  nothing  else  of  me,  Evy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course  —  I  cannot  explain, — 
there  is  no  use  talking  of  it.  You  are 
become  what  they  call  '  a  man  of  the 
world,'  and  I  thought  you  would  always 
have  I'emained  the  same  dear  b.>y  I  loved 
as  a  child.  You  see,  I'm  sti'l  an  ignorant 
little  school-girl  in  some  things." 

She  attempted  to  smile  as  she  said  this, 
but  the  effort  was  feeble. 

"  So  that  you  think  it  quite  natural  and 
right  that  we  should  be  separated  ? "  I 
as'ked  bitterly.  "  If  you  really  think  that, 
I  have  no  more  to  say  ;  only,  in  that  case, 
you  are  far  more  changed  than  /  am,  Eve- 
lyn." 

She  grew  pale,  and  I  saw  the  tears 
gather  in  her  eyes. 

"  They  say  you  are  so  awfully  wicked  — 
is  it  true  ? "  she  asked,  with  child-like 
naivete. 

"  No  :  that  is  the  rubbish  of  horrid  old 
scandal-mongers  like  Mrs.  Hawksley,  be- 
cause I  did  not  make  u]i  to  an  heiress  they 
all  ihou'^ht  I  niiirht  have  married  last 
season." 

She  shook  her  head  and  looked  down. 

"Speak,  Evy, —  say  something,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"  What  can  I  say  ?  They  tell  me  you  are 
in  love  with  some  one  who  is  not  at  all 
good." 

"  And  you  believe  that  old  cat  who  tells 
your  mother  all  these  lies  ?  " 

"  Oh !  it  is  not  only  Mrs.  Hawksley. 
There  is  Lady  Louisa  Pynsent,  and  some 
other  people,  told  mamma  yesterday  the 
B:mu:  thing." 

"  They  are  a  nice  lot !  I  should  like  to 
sec  them  all  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ! 
They  have  such  vile  imaginations,  Evy. 
they  i)ut  the  worst  construction  on  every 
thing." 

She  looked  sadly  distressed. 

"  Lady  Rachel,  herself,  you  know,  has 
warned  me." 

"  My  mother  and  I  are  two.  You  mustn't 
listen  to  a  word  she  says." 

"  Oh,  dear  Osmund !  don't  say  that  —  so 


good  as  she  is,  —  and  you  ran  away,  and 
have  never  come  home  since  1  I  always 
say  that  you  will  some  day,  —  that  you  are 
only  led  astray,  and  that  when  you  find  out 
how  bad  all  the  peojjle  are  by  wh(jm  you 
are  surrounded,  you  will  return  and  be  as 
you  once  were  again.  I  can't  believe"  — 
here  she  broke  off 

"  Evy,  will  you  believe  me  when  I  swear 
to  you  that  all  you  have  heard  is  false  ?  I 
love  you,  my  darling,  as  I  did  when  I  was 
a  boy,  —  only  a  hundred-fold  more  ;  and  I 
never  have  loved  any  one  else." 

She  flushed  up  to  her  temples,  and  raised 
her  clear  brown  eyes  to  my  face.  Then  she 
faltered,  "  But  —  but  even  this  evening  "  — 
"  You  overheard  some  words  that  fell  from 
Madame  d'Arnheim,  when  you  found  us  to- 
gether ?  Well,  my  darling,  you  misunder- 
stand their  nature  entirely.     She  "  — 

"  Miss  Hamleigh,  our  dance  has  began," 
said  Tufton,  approaching. 

"  You  must  give  me  an  opportunity  of  ex- 
planation," I  whispered.  "  You  will  take  a 
turn  with  me,  when  this  dance  is  over  ?  Say 
that  you  will,  darling." 

She  had  turned  very  white,  and  was  lean- 
ing against  the  table. 

"  A  glass  of  water ! "  was  all  she  could 
say. 

Tuflon  poured  one  out,  and  gave  it  her. 
"  The  heat,"  she  murmured,  after  a  minute 
or  two.     "  Lord  Tufton,  I  think  if  you  will 
forgive  me,  I  will  go  and  sit  by  mamma  in- 
stead of  dancing.     I  feel  giddy." 

As  she  took  his  arm,  our  eyes  met  for  an 
instant.  I  saw  what  an  effort  it  cost  her, 
poor  child,  to  maintain  her  composure  ;  but 
no  more  passed  between  us. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  heard  some  one 
say,  — 

"  The  beauty  has  fainted,  or  something 
very  like  it,  and  has  had  to  leave  the  ball. 
Tufton  is  in  despair.  I  never  saw  a  man 
so  bitten." 


CHAPTER  XXXVni. 

Those  last  words  rang  in  my  ears  all 
the  remainder  of  the  night.  I  danced,  I 
took  some  one  in  to  supper;  I  did  all  that 
could  be  expected  of  me,  without  being 
more  than  half  conscious  of  what  I  was 
about.  At  last  I  slipped  away,  got  up  to 
my  turret-bedroom,  and  sat  down  before 
tlu!  fire  to  think. 

What  ought  my  course  now  to  be  ? 
There  was  no  question  about  it,  that  my 
darling's  mind  h.id  been  poisoned  about 
Madame  d'Arnheim.  I  remembered  now 
that  Evelyn  must  have  seen  my  poor  friend 
in  my  arms  upon  the  ice  the  previous  day  ; 


112 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


all  the  idle  gossip  regarding  us  liad  reached 
her ;  and  now,  this  evening,  she  had  seen 
us  again  together,  and  ha(i  heard  words 
spoken  whiidi  had  evidently  left  an  impres- 
sion on  luT  mind  tiiat  my  asseverations 
h;id  not  tlispellcd. 

I  was  bitterly  hnrt  and  disappointed.  T 
had  thonnlit  that  half  a  dozen  vvords  li'om 
me  would  have  prevailed  with  her  against 
all  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  yet,  the 
longer  I  thought  over  it,  the  more  clearly 
I  saw,  that,  unless  Evelyn's  mind  had  re- 
mained in  the  plastic  condition  of  child- 
hood, the  iniluence  and  warnings  of  both 
our  mothers,  the  weight  of  the  world's  evi- 
dence against  me,  —  nay,  the  evidence  other 
own  senses,  —  must  preponderate  against 
my  hasty  disavowal  in  this  matter.  She 
was  no  longer  a  child,  although  retaining 
some. of  the  nai'ye/e  of  childhood.  She  had 
reflected,  and  sutrereil,  as  any  girl  of  strong 
feeling  must  have  done,  separated  from  the 
ol)ject  of  her  first  aiFections,  and  hearing 
his  delinquencies  reprobated  and  mourned 
over.  She  did  not  believe  in  my  hopeless 
depravity ;  her  mother  had  not  succeeded 
so  iiir  :  I  was  led  astray  ;  I  had  fallen  into 
evil  company ;  I  should  one  day  repent 
and  be  forgiven.  This,  I  saw,  was  the 
frame  of  mind  in  which  my  darling  was 
respecting  me.  If  I  chose  to  bow  down  to 
the  reigning  gods  at  Beaumanoir,  why, 
then  I  might  be  restored  to  favor,  and  my 
delinquencies  forgotten ;  but  I  swore  J 
would  not  so  bow  down.  I  would  be  justi- 
fied ;  I  would  not  be  forgiven  the  sins  I 
had  never  committed. 

The  moment  had  arrived  when  I  felt 
that  I  ought  to  write  to  my  mother.  The 
only  possession  in  which  I  could  distance 
all  competitors  for  Evelyn's  hand  was  ray 
unswerving  love  from  early  boyhood  until 
now ;  and  this  it  was  sought  to  discredit. 
She  was  told  —  and  my  mother  had  clearly 
helped  in  the  telling — that  my  fire  was 
laid  upon  other  altars  ;  and,  however  leni- 
ently the  world  might  judge  such  peccadil- 
loes, the  charge  was  destructive  to  the 
claim  of  unalterable  attachment  to  my 
cousin.  Probably,  on  that  very  account, 
had  it  been  hailed  by  Lady  Rachel  and 
Mrs.  Hamleigb.  The  latter,  who  saw 
every  thing  through  my  mother's  eyes,  wns 
shown  that  it  was  of  the  last  importance 
to  detach  Evelyn  from  me,  no  matter  how ; 
and,  of  every  form  of  ill-doing,  that  of  which 
1  had  been  accused  was  the  best  calculated 
to  eflfect  this  object ;  and  yet  it  had  not 
efTected  it.  Though  grieving  over  the  sins 
she  heard  denounced,  that  look  in  her  eyes 
told  me  that  I  had  not  lost  my  hold  over 
my  darling's  heart. 

If  the  reader  of  these  pages  understands 
my  character  at  all  by  this  time,  he  will 


not  be  surprised  to  hear,  that,  while  medi- 
tating over  my  future  line  of  conduct,  I 
never  contemplated  altering  it  as  regarded 
the  two  ladies  with  whom  my  name  had 
been  coupled.  I  had  done  no  harm —  why 
should  I?  As  regarded  Lady  C  istle,  I 
had  only  a  feeling  of  compassion,  as  I  should 
have  had  for  some  .poor  hunted  animal 
that  sought  refuge  at  my  feet.  I  had  nb 
especial  deliglit  in  her  society  :  1  had  even 
avoided  it  of  late  ;  but  I  had  promised  to 
befriend  her,  and,  if  she  needed  my  help,  I 
would  not  go  back  from  my  word. 

Madame  d'Arnlieim's  was  a  very  differ- 
ent   case.     When    I   looked  back    at   the 
influence  she  had  exercised  over  me  dur- 
ing the  past  year,  I  recognized  more  than 
ever  the  precious  gift  that  such  a  woman's 
friendship  may  be  to  a  man  in  the  outstart 
of  life.     I  felt  the  deepest  reverence,  admi- 
ration, and  gratitude  towards  her.     I  might 
think  her  a  little  severe  at  times  ;  she  raiaht 
be  a  little  too  high-flown  for  me  at  others  ; 
but  I  had  the  most  absolute  trust  in  iier 
goodness  and  her  unshrinking  truth,  which 
never   spared    me;  and   I   valued   such  a 
friendship  far  too  highly  to  sacrifice  it  to 
the  world's  gossip.     She  filled  a  place  in 
my  life  no  one  had  ever  filled  ;  and  was  I 
not  conscious  that  I  supplied  a  want,  an 
interest,  in  hersY     If  she  learnt  that  idle 
tongues  were  wagging  about  her,  would  she 
not   simply   scorn   the    scandal  ?      At   all 
events,  the  rupture  of  our  intimacy  must 
be  her  doing.     It  would  be  an  act  of  miser- 
able cowardice  and  truckling  to  the  world, 
and  to  those  family  powers  who   for  the 
present  held  my  fate  in  their  hands,  if  I 
abandoned   Madame  d'Arnheim.      It  was 
thus  I  argued. 

I  had  sat  there  nearly  an  hour,  meditat- 
ing beside  the  fire,  when  I  caught  the  faint 
wail  of  the  violin,  like  the  cry  of  a  soul  in 
pain,  coming  up  from  the   room  beneath 
mine.    Arthur  and  I  had  the  turret  Lctween 
us.     He  was  not  in  bed,  then,  and  was  no 
more   minded   for  repose  than  myself.     I' 
was  seized  with  a  sudden  desire  to  talk 
with  him  about  Evelyn.     Pi.'rhaps  it  would 
be  better  that  I  should  tell  him  at  once  what 
I  had  never  yet  revealed?  —  the   actual 
condition  of  things  between  us.     As  I  have 
already  said  in  another  place,  there  was 
that  in  this  friend  of  mine,  which,  with  all 
my  strong   affection  for  liim,  had  hitherto 
prevented  my  confiding  the  story  of  my 
youthful  love  to  him.     It  had  never  seemed 
possible  that  he  could  be  touched  by  love 
himself.     I  had  never  heard  him  express 
so    much   as   a   strong   admiration    for   a 
woman  ;   but  to-night  he  had  shown  unmis- 
takably that  he  was  capable  of  such  admi- 
ration ;  he  had  come  out  in  a  light  so  new 
to  me,  that  I  had  difficulty  in  believing  the 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


113 


evidence  of  my  own  senses.  AVas  it  really 
Arthur,  "the  man  of  adamant  "  as  I  was 
wont  to  call  him,  who  had  been  devotinjj; 
himself  to  my  liitle  Evelyn  all  the  night  V 
I  had  suQered  momentary  pangs  of  jeal- 
ousy, but  tliese  were  past.  After  the  few 
words  that  had  passed  between  my  dar- 
h"ng  and  me,  I  fcdt  that  though  she  had 
been  told  that  I  was  desperately  "  wicked," 
and  though  she  clearly  believed  that  I  was 
not  absolutely  true  to  her,  her  heart  was 
still  mine.  It  was  in  no  man's  power  to 
rob  me  of  it. 

But  on  this  xery  account  I  felt  that  our 
friendship  demanded  of  me  an  avowal  of  the 
truth ;  lest,  haply,  my  friend  should  enter 
into  a  rivalship  with  me,  which,  though 
hopeless  to  him,  might  be  productive  of 
much  misery  to  us  both.  I  would  tell  him 
every  thing.  My  natural  candor  rendered 
such  a  step  almost  necessary  to  me  now  ;  at 
least  I  thought  so,  as  I  entered  the  room. 

*'  Come  in,  Pen,"  he  said,  as  I  opened  the 
door,  and  found  him  in  the  dark,  except  for 
the  red  light  from  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  and 
the  cold  stars  that  shone  through  the  uncur- 
tained window.  He  stood  near  it,  half  un- 
dressed, his  violin  in  his  hand,  his  clear-cut 
profile,  as  he  bent  his  head,  just  touched  by 
the  pale  starlight  ;  the  strong  soul  within 
him  drawn  to  his  fingers'  ends,  and  passing 
out  in  a  broad  stream  of  sound,  as  lie  bent 
his  bow-arm  with  all  the  sinuous  grace  of 
nervous  mastery.  So  standing  in  the  twi- 
light, he  recalled  a  drawing  I  had  seen  by 
one  of  the  old  Florentines,  on  gray  paper, 
touched  sparingly  with  white,  of  Orpheus 
in  the  land  of  shades. 

He  did  not  stop  for  my  coming  in  :  he 
played  the  passionate  melody  he.  had  begun 
to  an  end  before  he  laid  down  his  violin, 
and  said,  — 

"  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  Pen  ;  and  I 
should  have  come  up  to  your  room,  but  that 
I  thought  you  were  in  bed,  and  asleep. 
Draw  a  chair  to  the  fire,  and  light  your 
pipe,  old  boy.  Do  you  know  I've  been 
rather  unhappy  about  you  to-night  ?  " 

I  felt  no  doubt  as  to  what  he  alluded.  It 
was  a  relief  to  find  the  opening  to  my  con- 
fidence made  so  easy  to  me. 

"  Have  you  ?  What  about  ?  I  think  I 
know  ;  but  don't  light  the  candles,  old  fel- 
low. We  can  talk  much  better  in  the  dark." 

"  All  right."  He  sat  down  opposite  me.  "It 
has  to  do  with  something  we  sjjoke  of  yester- 
day. I  want  to  give  you  a  word  of  advice, 
which  from  a  man  ten  years  your  senior,  you 
won't  take  amiss.  Pen.  I  pooh-pooh'd  the 
world's  gossip  about  you  yesterday;  but, 
from  what  I  have  seen  and  heard  to-night, 
I  think  you  ought  to  be  careful.  If  not,  you 
■will  burn  your  fingers." 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean  ?     You   don't  rea- 


ly  believe  this  nonsense  about  me  and 
Madame  d'Arnheim  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  there  is  nothing  serious  at 
present,  on  your  side,  at  all  events.  It  may 
do  her  harm,  perhaps,  in  more  ways  than 
one  —  I  don't  suppose  it  will  do  you  any; 
but  the  lady  seems  to  me  rather  given  to 
sentimentality  —  and  you  are  very  young. 
Your  other  little  amusement,  however,  is  far 
more  dangerous.  Flirting  with  Lady  Castle 
is  playing  with  edge-tools,  depend  on  it." 

"  God  bless  my  soul  I  "  I  cried,  starting 
up,  "  it  is  enough  to  drive  a  fellow  mad,  Ar- 
thur, to  find  you,  too,  swallowing  all  this 
rubbish.  First,  Madame  d'Arnheim,  and 
then  Lady  Castle  !  What  on  earth  did  you 
hear  about  me  and  her  ?  " 

"  She  was  seen  crying  to-night  when  you 
were  alone  together  so  long,  and  she  raves 
about  you  so  openly,  I  am  told,  that  it  is  no 
wonder  if  the  old  story  of  last  season  is  re- 
vived,—  that  you  have  supplanted  Bene- 
vento  in  her  good  graces.  Now,  take  care, 
Pen,  or  you  will  find  yom-self  caught,  before 
you  know  where  you  are ;  and,  let  me  tell 
you,  the  escape  from  a  iiauion  of  this  kind 
is  often  very  difficult." 

"  I  assure  you  there  is  not  the  smallest 
danger  for  me.  You  talk  like  "  —  I  was 
going  to  say  "  Madame  d'Arnhiem,"  but 
felt  the  unwisdom  of  bringing  her  into  the 
discussion  —  "  like  a  man  who  has  had 
many  experiences  of  this  sort,  instead  of 
being  a  model  of  prudence,  who  takes  very 
good  care  never  to  be  talked  of  with  any 
woman,"  I  added  with  a  laugh. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  something  ?  "  he  said, 
after  a  pause.  "  I  have  not  had  many  sim- 
ilar experiences,  but  I  have  had  one.  Long 
before  I  knev;  vou,  I  got  into  an  entano'le- 
ment  which  well-nigh  proved  my  ruin.  It 
was  that  which  drove  me  to  gamble  —  it  is 
that  which  has  always  made  me  shun  socie- 
ty, to  a  great  extent.  It  has  given  me  a 
dread  of  women,  —  women  of  the  world, 
that  is  to  say.  Keep  clear  of  their  snares, 
if  you  can,  Pen." 

1  repeated  that  there  was  no  foundation 
for  the  fear  that  I  was  to  fall  a  victim  to  this 
particular  woman  of  the  world.  I  said  to 
liim  pretty  much  what  I  had  said  to  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim,  but  I  had  the  annoyance 
of  seeing  that  it  did  n(jt  pi'oduce  much 
elTect.  I  was  not  in  love  yet  —  that,  he 
said,  he  quite  believed  ;  but,  if  I  continued 
to  play  with  fire,  —  unless  I  resolutely  put 
it  from  me  —  it  was  hardly  possible  that  I 
should  remain  unburnt.  I  tried  to  make  him 
understand,  without  betraying  her  confi- 
dence, that  Lady  Castle  had  consulted  me 
as  a  friend,  and  it  was  in  that  light  alone 
that  our  intercourse  now  or  hereafter  would 
be  kej)!  up.  He  shook  his  head  incredu- 
lously, and  repeated  two  or  three  times,  — 


114 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  DeponcI  on  it,  it  is  a  mistake  jroing  in 
for  married  women  as  you  do,  Pen." 

Alter  this  eonversiitiun,  the  diflieulty  of 
approaehinij    that    other  subject  on  wliieh 
I  desired  to  speak  was  increased  four-foUl. 
In  spite  of  every  disclaimer,  I  saw  that  Ar- 
thur believed  I   was  carryino;  on  more  or 
less  of  a  llirtalion  with  two  married  women 
at  the  same  moment.     He  even  feared  that 
one  of  these  would  ingulf  me.      This  an- 
noved  me  beyond  measure  on  every  account ; 
but,  most  of  all,  because  it  seemed  to  me  to 
render  the  opening  of  my  heart  impossible. 
I  had  entered  the  room  with  the  intention 
of  telling  my  friend  every  thing  that  con- 
cerned Evelyn  and  myself.     But  now  I  said, 
"  Believing  what  he  does,  will  he  not  treat 
the  story  of  my  love  simply  as  a  romantic 
episode  of  my  youth,  to  which  no  enduring 
importance  is  to  be  attached  ?  "  I  had  never 
even  named  my  P2velyn  to  him  during  all 
our  intimacy,  so  completely  had  her  image 
faded  from  my  memory  until  now,  when  we 
had   met   again,  and  her  beauty   was  the 
theme  of  every  tongue  1    I  fancied  I  saw  the 
half  ironical  smile  with  which  he  would  re- 
ceive  my   communication.     Were   we   en- 
gaged ?     No  ;  and   our  respective  parents 
■would  undoubtedly  oppose  any  such  engage- 
ment ;  so   much   I  must  admit.     Had  my 
fidelity  been  so  conspicuous  as  to  warrant 
the    assumption  that  my    young   cousin's 
heart,  in  spite  of  our  long  separation,  was 
still  mine  V     How  should  I  reply  to  this  V 
Evelyn's  constrained  manner  with  me,  her 
absolute  refusal  to  dance,  the  absence  of  all 
joy  in  her  greeting,  could  not  have  escaped 
his   observation.     If  I   spoke  the  truth,  I 
must  allow  that  she  had  not  only  heard,  but 
credited,  these  stories  concerning  me.     ]My 
bare  assertion  that  I  believed  that  her  heart, 
in  spite  of  every  thing,  remained  true  to  me, 
would  sound  like  a  vain  boy's  braggadocio. 
I  knew  it ;  I  felt  all  that  he  would  not  say, 
and  all  that  his  suggestive  silence  would 
imply,  and  I  had  not  the  moral  courage  to 
speak    at  such  a  disadvantage.     The  mo- 
ment, I  said  to  myself,  was  not  propitious. 
Let  me  dispossess  his  mind  of  these  erro- 
neous ideas  about  mvself.  and  then,  without 
fear  of  misconception,  I  would  tell  him  the 
truth.     And  so  the  only  moment,  whether 
propitious  or  not,  in  which  I  might  have 
confided  in  my  friend,  passed  away,  never 
to  return. 

We  sat  there  some  time  over  the  dying 
embers,  and  then  I  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

It  was  late  the  following  morning  when 
I  was  awoke  by  Joe  Carter's  opening  the 
shutters  with  an  unusual  clatter.     I  knew 


that  something  was  amiss  with  him.  When- 
ever his  mind  was  perturbed,  he  made  an 
unnecessary  to-do.  At  other  times  he 
could  be  deft  and  gentle  in  his  movements 
as  a  woman.  On  this  occasion  no  pity  for 
my  innocent  slumbers  caused  him  to  falter 
in  his  stern  purpose. 

"  It's  time  as  you  was  up,  master." 

"  No  hurry,  Joe,"  I  grumbled,  turning  on 
the  other  side.  "  Breakfast  will  go  on  all 
day,  I  should  think." 

''  yummut  like  tblks'  chatter."  Here  he 
paused  for  a  minute,  considering  how  he 
should  point  his  aphorism.  "  But  the 
tea  gets  bitter  by  standing,  and,  after  a  bit, 
so  do  folks'  tongues.  I  likes  both  hot  my- 
self." 

"  What  the  deuce  are  you  talking  about, 
Joe  ?  "  and  here  I  opened  my  heavy  eye- 
lids. 

"  Only  about  a  row  I  had  in  the  servants'  • 
hall  along  o'  you  last  night.     I'd  cut  it  if  I 
was  you." 

"  About  me?"  I  now  jumped  bolt  up- 
right.    "  I'm  afraid  you  were  drunk,  Joe." 

"  No  ;  I  might  ha'  had  a  drop  too  much, 
—  the  ale  hei'e's  plaguy  strong,  —  but  I 
wasn't  that  screwed  I  didn't  know  very 
well  what  I  were  doin'." 

"  Well,  go  on." 

Joe  stropped  my  razor  vigorously  for  a 
minute  belbre  proceeding. 

"  All  I  say  is,  cut  it,  afore  it's  too  late, 
and  let  the  blackguards  talk  as  they  will." 

"  Speak  out,  man,  can't  you  ?  What  the 
devil  are  you  driving  at  ?  Have  you  heard 
any  thing  about  me  ?  Is  that  what  this 
row  was  about  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Joe,  stopping  suddenly  in 
his  razor  operations,  and  turning  round  to 
face  me.  "  I  heard  more  than  I  liked,  —  a 
deal.  Lord  Castle's  man  began  it,  and  the 
count's  valet  took  up  the  chaflT.  I  knew 
they  were  lies ;  but,  if  paint  sticks,  it  don't 
matter  if  it's  good  or  bad.  They  called  you 
a  Don  John,  or  some  such  name  ;  and  so  I 
up  with  my  fist,  and  knocked  him  down  for 
his  pains." 

"  How  could  you  be  such  a  fool  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  never  you  mind  me,  master  :  you 
look  out  for  yourself.  I  don't  care  for  any 
on  *em,  and  so  I  told  'em.  They  called  me 
a  low  fellow,  and  I  ofiered  to  fight  'em  all 
round." 

"  Upon  my  life,  this  is  rather  too  bad,  — 
to  be  made  the  subject  of  ribaldry  in  the 
servants'  hall !  ' 

"  As  to  that,  don't  flatter  yourself  that 
every  blessed  thing  you  do  isn't  talked 
over.  As  to  what  they  said  o'  the  ladies, 
that  was  no  concern  o'  mine.  Women  can 
look  out  for  theirselves.  They're  at  the 
bottom  of  every  mischief,  and  I've  no  much 
pity  for  'em,  whatever's  said;  only  I  wasn't 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


115 


goin'   to   let   'em   go  on  tellin'  lies  about 
you." 

"  I  think  you  have  made  the  matter  very 
much  worse  by  creating  a  brawl,"  I  replied 
shaiply.  I  was  worried,  far  more  than  Joe 
could  possiby  know,  by  his  communication. 
The  jiossip  up  stairs  was  bad  enough  ;  but 
that  the  servants  should  have  begun  to  re- 
peat it  b(dow,  —  it  was  most  provoking.  I 
knew  how  swiftly  evil  report  s])reads 
through  such  channels  ;  for  myself,  I  had  no 
fear  of  not  living  it  down,  and  of  setting 
m\self  right,  sooner  or  later,  with  Evelyn 
and  the  rest  of  my  family  ;  but  for  Madame 
d'Arnheim's  sake,  I  was  much  more  seri- 
ously anii03'ed,  and  I  visited  my  annoyance 
rather  unjustly  upon  Joe. 

"  You  made  the  matter  very  much  worse ; 
and  it  all  comes  of  your  drinking  I  This 
is  the  Avay  you  keep  your  promises  to  re- 
form !  " 

"  I  haven't  been  tight  these  six  months," 
rejoined  Joe  indignantly,  "  and  I  wasn't  to 
say  screwed  last  night;  but  just  because  I 
wouldn't  let  them  blackguards  speak  so  of 
you,  you  turn  round  on  me  for  drinking  ! 
I  hadn't  need  to  have  told  you  a  word 
about  it,  —  and  why  did  I  ?  '  Because,' 
said  I,  '  there's  no  smoke  without  the  begin- 
ning of  a  fire,  —  a  chance  of  it,  any  way. 
If  the  slicks  is  damp  and  disinclined,  they 
won't  light ;  but  there  the  sticks  is,  and 
there's  the  smoke,  and  I  says  to  myself  the 
best  thing  master  can  do  is  to  cut  his 
stick.'  " 

A  caution  as  to  morality  and  worldly 
prudence  from  Joe  Carter  !  I  could  hardly 
hel|)  smiling,  in  spite  of  my  irritation  ;  and 
the  curious  thing  was,  he  was  the  third 
person  in  the  course  of  twelve  hours  who 
had  tendered  me  the  same  advice. 

I  was  not  going  to  part  with  my  resent- 
ment, however,  so  easily.  I  considered  it 
but  my  duo,  and  that  it  would  be  extremely 
weak  if  I  succumbed  at  once  to  Joe's  argu- 
ments in  defence  of  himself;  therefore  I 
replied  shortly  that  I  had  no  intention  of 
leaving  the  castle  for  some  days,  if  that  was 
what  he  meant,  and  that  I  should  be  obliged 
to  him  to  keep  out  of  any  further  brawls 
during  the  i-emain<ler  of  my  stay  there. 

Joe  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  the  room  : 
there  was  the  boot  inspection,  and  the  for- 
mation of  figures  on  the  toilet-table  with 
my  bottles  and  brushes,  the  symmetrical 
arrangement  of  my  clothes  on  a  chair,  and 
the  deployment  of  a  stiflly-starched  shirt, 
whose  mouth  and  arms  he  opened  wide 
upon  the  bed  to  embrace  me ;  all  this, 
his  clock-work  routine,  he  went  leisurely 
through,  while  I  shaved ;  and  he  went 
through  it  in  dignified  silence.  Joe's  feel- 
ings were  wounded.  It  was  not  till  he  had 
left  the  room,  and   I  was  more   than   half- 


dressed,  that  I  perceived  a  letter  on  the 
table,  which  Joe  had  laid  there.  I  recog- 
nized Mr.  Francis's  hand,  and  tore  it  open. 
It  ran  thus  :  — 

"My  dear  Osmund,  —  I  have  sad 
news  to  communicate.  jNIr.  John  Penrud- 
docke  has  had  another  attack,  and  he  is 
d\ing.  I  have  just  parted  from  the  doctor, 
who  says  he  may  jjossibly  last  three  or 
four  days,  —  certainly  not  longer.  I  have 
thought  it  right  to  let  you  know  this  at 
once,  because  your  poor  cousin  has  ex- 
pressed a  strong  desire  to  see  you,  and  has 
asked  when  you  were  expected  to  return  to 
London.  I  could  only  reply  that  I  did  not 
know,  as  I  was  unwilling  to  hold  out  hopes 
which  it  might  not  be  in  your  power  to  real- 
ize. I  know  that  you  are  staying  in  the 
midst  of  a  gay  party,  and  may  possibly  feel 
averse  from  coming  to  sad  scenes ;  I  can 
but  say,  that,  if  you  decide  on  returning,  it 
will  be  a  great  comfort  to  more  than  one  in 
this  house.  Elizabeth  behaves  wonder- 
fully. Her  self-control,  knowing  her  as  I 
do,  amazes  me ;  but  she  feels  the  impor- 
tance of  not  agitating  her  father,  and, 
before  him,  she  is  calm  and  collected,  far 
more  so,  indeed,  than  poor  Mr.  Humphrey 
is.  His  nervous  restlessness  and  excitabil- 
ity are  terrible.  I  will  let  you  know  when 
all  is  over,  if  we  do  not  see  you  before.  I 
feel  sure  that  you  will,  at  all  events,  make 
a  point  of  attending  the  funeral. 

"  In  haste,  to  save  this  post,  if  possible, 
"  Your  attached  friend, 

"  H.  Francis." 

"P.S.  —  No  one  knows  that  I  am  writ- 
ing." 

My  hand  was  on  the  bell  as  I  finished 
the  letter. 

"  Joe,"  I  said,  when  he  appeared  in  an- 
swer to  the  summons,  "  send  for  a  fly  to 
meet  the  two  o'clock  up-traiu,  and  pack  my 
things  at  once." 

No  doubt  Joe  was  satisfied  that  I  had 
yielded  to  the  cogency  of  his  arguments ; 
but  my  thoughts  were  too  full  of  other  mat- 
ters to  waste  time  in  unnecessary  words. 
While  he  set  himself  with  alacrity  to  the 
task  of  destroying  the  beautiful  symmetry 
of  my  wardrobe  and  toilet-table,  and  con- 
signed them  to  temporary  burial  in  my 
portmanteau,  shovelling  in  the  clothes,  and 
then  patting  them  down,  like  so  many  sods 
of  earth,  I  opened  my  blotting-book  and 
wrote  two  letters.  The  first,  to  Evelyn, 
never  reached  its  destination.  The  second, 
to  my  mother,  was  a  vehement  protest 
against  her  accepting  every  injurious  ru- 
mor that  reached  her  concerning  me. 

"  The  bad  opinion  you  express  of  me  is 


116 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


too  consistent,"  I  wi-ote,  "  for  mo  to  be  sur- 
piiseil  ;it  your  reiuliness  to  receive  iind  dis- 
seminate reports  disadvantageous  to  my 
character.  At  the  same  time,  I  feel  that 
it'  1  allow  these  charges,  — whicli  atFect  the 
■'reputation  of  at  least  one  lady  whom  the 
breath  of  scandal  has  never  before  dared  to 
touch,  —  if  I  allow  them  to  be  made  with- 
out an  energetic  and  indignant  denial  of 
their  truth,  it  will  ajipear  like  an  indiller- 
ence  which  I  am  very  far  from  feeling. 
For  the  sake  of  that  ladv,  —  one  of  the  no- 
blest  of  women,  —  even  more  than  for  my 
own.  I  am  bound  to  rebut  these  slanders, 
althc)Ugh  it  may  be  that  my  future  happi- 
ness is  at  stake,  if  the  mind  of  the  only 
ci'eature  I  love  passionately  on  earth  is 
poisoned  by  falsehood.  That  consideration, 
1  am  aware,  would  weigh  but  little  with 
you.  You  may  rest  assured,  however,  that 
truth  will  triumph  in  the  end,  and  it  is  well 
that  I  should  tell  you  plainly  that  I  will 
never  marry  any  one  but  Evelyn  llam- 
leigh." 

It  might  be  impolitic,  but  I  resolved 
thus  boldly  to  state  my  hopes,  while  remon- 
strating, in  no  measured  terms,  against  my 
mother's  cruel  interference.  The  composi- 
tion of  this  letter  took  me  more  than  half- 
an  hour,  and  the  long  drive  to  the  station 
did  not  leave  me  much  time  tor  breakfast 
and  leave-taking  before  the  hour  when  the 
tniin  was  due. 

Madame  d'Arnheim,  looking  pale  and  ill, 
was  seated  next  to  the  duchess  when  I  en- 
tered the  breakfost-room.  I  dropped  into 
an  empty  seat  opposite,  between  Lord  Cas- 
tle and  Arthur.  Very  few  of  the  others 
had  appeared. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Her  Grace,  with  slight- 
ly elevated  brows,  as  I  announced  that  I 
had  received  a  summons.  "  Your  sudden 
departure  takes  me,  at  all  events,  rjuite  by 
surprise,  Mr.  Penruddocke."  And  1  saw 
her  glance  at  Madame  d'Arnheim. 

The  latter  looked  at  me  intently.  Her 
face  expressed  astonishment,  and  a  certain 
degree  of  anxiety.  Arthur  half  turned  to- 
wards me.  I  saw  he  was  waiting  with 
curiosity  for  my  explanation. 

"It  is  family  business  that  calls  me  to 
London,  Duchess.    I  am  very  sorry  to  go." 

Arthur  gave  me  an  approving  smile. 
Like  Joe,  he  was  deceived  as  to  the  cause 
of  my  sudden  flitting. 

''  And  what  are  the  tableaux  to  do  with- 
out you  V  "  cried  Mrs.  Chaffinch.  "  Lady 
Castle  will  be  in  despair  ;  or  have  you  al- 
ready softened  the  blow  to  her,  Mr.  Pen- 
ruddocke? Poor  dear,  perhaps  that's  why 
she  is  keeping  her  bed." 

Before  I  could  reply  to  this  sally,  Lord 
Castle,  gravely  intent  upon  the  egg  before 
him,  said,  with  the  utmost  simplicity, — 


"No:  Clare  told  me  just  now  that  she 
hoped  to  persuade  you  to  return  with  us  to 
the  Grange,  for  a  few  days,  on  Saturday. 
She  will  be  quite  sorry,  I  am  sure,  to  find 
you  have  run  away." 

I  I,neiv  —  though  I  did  not  choose  to  see 

—  the  way  in  which  Mrs.  Chaffinch  glanced 
round  the  table,  before  I  heard  her  disgust- 
ing laugh. 

"  Yes.  Lord  Castle,  that's  the  right  word 
— '  run  away.'  It's  pusillanimous,  isn't  it  ? 
What  Scrijjture  hero  shall  we  compare  him 
to  ?  David  wouldn't  have  behaved  so, 
nor  Solomon, — certainly  not  Solomon.  I 
scarcely  know  any  one  who  would  have 
fled  from  the  attractions  of  our  sex,  except 
that  virtuous  young  party  who  was  sold  by 
his  brethren.  lie  ran  away.  Ha,  ha ! 
that's  what  it  is  to  be  spoilt  1  All  these 
boys  give  themselves  such  airs  now.  Here 
I've  been  trying,  ever  since  I  knew  him,  to 
make  Mr.  Penruddocke  say  a  civil  thing  to 
me,  and  never  have  succeeded  yet.  And 
now  he  runs  away  !  " 

"  No  wonder,  Mrs.  Chaffinch,"  said  An- 
castar.  "  He  found  himself  yielding  to 
the  seductions  of  your  mellifluous  tongue. 
Thei-e  was  no  safety  but  in  flight." 

"  I'm  afraid  there  is  no  safety  from  Mrs. 
Cha-lfinch's  mellifluous  tongue  even  in 
flight,"  said  I.  "  '  Men  may  come,  and  men 
may  go,  but  it.  goes  on  forever.' " 

"  There,  if  that  isn't  a  civil  thing,  I  don't 
know  what  is!"  cried  Ancastar.  "You 
have  it  at  last,  Mrs.  Chaffinch.  You're  like 
Tennyson's  '  Brook  '  —  nothing  could  be 
prettier.  You  '  chatter,  chatter  on  your 
way,'  and  you  '  move  the  sweet  forget-me- 
nots  that  grow  for  happy  lovers.'  That  you 
maybe  said  to  do  wirfeet?  — nothing  could 
be  more  ajipropriate.  Bravo,  Penrud- 
docke !  " 

Amidst  the  general  laughter,  the  duch- 
ess's incisive  voice  was  heard  saying, — 

"  What  rubbish,  Ancastar,  you  young 
men  do  talk  in  the  present  day  !  There 
was  a  time  when  genuine  wit  existed,  — 
now  there  is  nothing  but  what  you  term 
'  chaff '  —  such  a  dreadful  word  !  Mr.  Pen- 
ruddocke, is  it  true  thaf  the  young  person 
we  all  admired  so  much  last  night — Miss 

—  Miss  Hamleigh,  I  think  —  is  a  cousin  of 
yours  ?  " 

IMadame  d'Arnheim's  eyes  had  been  fixed 
abstractedly  upon  a  spot  on  the  table-cloth 
for  some  minutes.  She  raised  them  swifl- 
ly  to  my  face,  and  her  cheek  flushed  as  I 
replied  that  Miss  Hamleigh  was  my  cous- 
in. 

"  Jove  !  she's  a  beautiful  girl ;  and  so  you 
seemed  to  think,  Tufton,"  said  Ancastar. 

"  Yes,  I  did  think  her  beautiful ;  and, 
what  is  better,  natural,  unspoilt,  —  perfect- 
ly feminine." 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


117 


"Is  tke  mother  that  woman  with  the 
teeth  V  "  asked  Lady  Ancastar  hinfj;uidly. 

"  ;\Irs.  Haoileigh  has  fine  teeth,"  replied 
Arthur,  rather  resentfully.  "  She  seems  a 
particularly  nice  person,  —  so  frank  and 
genial." 

Mrs.  Hamleii^h  frank  and  genial !  Ar- 
thur must  be  indeed  blinded.  I  began  to 
reixret  that  I  bad  not  made  a  clean  breast 
to  him  last  night.  But  we  should  meet  in 
a  few  days'  time  in  town,  and  then  I  would 
tell  him  all. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  I  had  taken 
my  leave  of  the  duchess,  and  was  in  the 
hall.  The  fly,  with  my  portmanteau,  and 
Joe  standing  like  a  sentry  over  it,  were  at 
the  door.  Madame  d'Aruheim  was  beside 
me. 

"  So  it  was  your  Evelyn,  was  it,  last 
night  ?     Ah  !  I  understand  it  all  now." 

"  Did  you  not  guess  why  I  left  you  as  I 
did  ?  I  was  too  much  bewildered  to  ex- 
plain any  thing  at  the  moment,  —  the  un- 
expected sight  of  her  so  completely  upset 
me." 

"  No,  I  did  not  guess.  I  saw  a  lovely 
girl,  but  did  not  hear  her  name.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  had  suddenly  remembered 
something  of  importance  you  had  to  com- 
municate to  Lady  Castle,  and  shortly  after 
I  went  up  stairs,  feeling  very  weary. 

"  I  did  not  remain  much  later  myself.  I 
passed  a  miserable  evening,  —  but  I  have 
not  time  to  tell  you  any  thing  now.  When 
shall  you  be  in  town  V  " 

"  Poor  boy  1  I  feared  as  much.  It  is  this 
is  taking  you  away  ?  We  shall  be  in  town 
in  a  fortnight.  You  shall  then  come  and 
confide  your  troubles  to  me." 

There  was  a  rapid  rustling  of  satin  down 
the  great  staircase  behind  us  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  Lady  Castle  called  out,  — 

"  1  am  so  glad  I  am  just  in  time  to  wish 
you  good-by.  Castle  came  to  tell  me  you 
were  sjoing.  It  is  too  sad,  isn't  it,  Madame 
d'Arnheim  ?  " 

But  that  lady  responded  never  a  word. 
She  froze  into  herself,  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  upon  the  hard  white  road  of 
the  park. 

"  Can't  you  come  to  us,"  continued  Lady 
Castle,  "  next  week,  or  the  week  after  ? 
AVe  shall  have  no  party.  It  will  be  very 
dull  for  you,  I'm  afraid,  but  if  you  will 
come,  it  will  be  so  nice.  Do  try  to  get 
leave." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  am  going 
up  upon  family  business  which  will  keep 
me  in  town  probably  some  time.  At  all 
events,  I  should  not  be  able  to  get  leave 
again  at  prcsimt." 

"  And  I  sha'n't  be  in  town  till  the  middle 
of  M  trcli !  Two  wliole  months,  —  dread- 
ful, isn't  itV  "     Here  she  looked  very  sig- 


nificantly. "  But  there  is  no  help  for  it. 
We  are  going  to  make  great  im])rovements 
in  the  park  and  gardens  at  the  Grange. 
Mr.  Thomas  is  coming  down  the  beginning 
of  March,  and  Castle  wishes  me  to  be  there 
to  discuss  plans  with  him.  I  always  make 
a  point,  poor  dear  !  of  doing  what  he  wishes, 
when  he  does  express  a  desire,  —  it  is  so 
seldom  !  " 

"  Good-by,  Lady  Castle.  I  mustn't  stay 
any  longer,  or  I  shall  miss  the  train.  Good- 
by,  Madame  d'Arnheim.  I  leave  my  char- 
acter in  the  hands  of  both  of  voir,  when  my 
back  is  turned.  Save  me  from  Mrs.  Chat- 
finch." 

I  hun-ied  into  the  fly,  and  left  the  two 
ladies  standing  there,  waving  their  fare- 
wells, —  as  great  a  contrast  as  any  two  of 
their  sex  could  have  presented  ;  the  one, 
soft  and  scented,  a  very  pretty  object,  at- 
tired in  Mr.  Worth's  last  eccentricity,  with 
just  a  soup^on  of  rouge  and  powder  to  hide 
the  ravages  of  time  and  late  hours  ;  a  mys- 
terv  of  lace  and  lockets,  flounces  and  false 
curls  —  the  other,  simple  to  severity,  in  her 
tieht-fitting  dress,  and  hair  swept  back  from 
her  brow,  her  pale  and  worn  face  unas- 
sisted by  art  of  any  kind,  —  by  no  means 
pretty,  as  she  appears  this  morning,  yet 
always  noble  and  interesting. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

It  was  past  seven  o'clock  when  my  han- 
som drove  up  to  Cheyne  AValk.  The  stars 
shone  brightly  ;  the  cold  was  intense. 

"  How  is  Mr.  John  ?  "  was  my  first  ques- 
tion of  old  Annie,  who,  in  answer  to  the 
bell,  unfastened  the  already-barred  door. 

The  old  servant  shook  her  head. 

"  Died   o'  three  o'clock  this  afternoon." 

I  entered.  "  Tell  Mr.  Francis  I  am 
here." 

I  walked  into  the  quaint  little  parlor  to 
the  right  of  the  passage,  and  waited.  In  a 
minute  or  two  he  appeared. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come,  my  boy, 
thou;rh  it  is  too  late  to  see  Jiiin, —  he  was 
taken  quite  suddenly  at  last;  but  your 
coming  will  be  a  comfort  to  Mr.  Hum- 
phrey and  to  Elizabeth." 

"  Was  he  conscious  at  the  end  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  Yes,  and  he  spoke  a  great  deal  of 
you."  Here  he  paused  for  a  moment. 
"  But  I  will  enter  upon  that  anollier  time. 
Elizabeth  will  like  to  see  you  now. 
She  has  not  shed  a  tear,  jjoor  child  !  I 
wish  she  could.  She  has  never  left  the 
l)oily.  You  will  not  mind  coming  in  there, 
Osmund  V  " 

We  went  up  stairs,  and  softly  entered 
the  room  where  I  had  last  seen  poor  John. 


118 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


There  stood  the  dimity  bed,  with  the 
flickering  firelight  on  it ;  and  upon  the 
bed  the  vast  gaunt  outline  I  knew  so 
well,  dimly  delined  beneath  the  sheets. 
The  massive  features  just  tipped  with 
light,  the  eyelid  weighed  down  by  that 
solemn  sleep  whieli  knows  no  waking,  the 
firm  wide-sweeping  mouth  and  square-cut 
jaw  looking  far  grander  now  than  in  life. 
It  reminded  me  in  its  impassive  majesty  of 
a  i)ietnre  of  the  Sphinx  in  the  desert. 
How  strange  it  is  that  when  tliat  mind  is 
forever  at  rest,  whose  activity  we  are 
accustomed  to  think  can  alone  give  inter- 
est to  the  human  countenance,  in  the  un- 
broken stillness  that  rests  there,  it  becomes 
at  once  ennobled  !  In  the  absence  of  that 
which  we  chiefly  prize  in  life,  lies  the 
awful  and  unapproachable  beauty  of 
death. 

Kneeling  beside  the  bed,  with  her  back 
to  the  fire,  was  Elizabeth.  Her  head  was 
buried  in  her  hands  :  she  was  quite  mo- 
tionless when  we  entered.  I  spoke  to  her 
softly  by  name,  and  she  looked  up  quick- 
ly. A  shudder  ran  through  the  slight 
young  frame,  and  she  rose  to  her  feet. 
1  took  both  her  hands  in  mine,  and  held 
them  ;  then,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I 
kissed  her,  and  said,  — 

"  Dear  Elizabeth,  I  am  so  grieved  not  to 
have  been  here  in  time.  I  came  off  the 
instant  I  heard.  I  am  so  very  sorry  for 
you,  my  dear." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands 
again. 

"  I  thought  I  was  prepared,  but  I  was 
not.  Oh  !  my  dad,  my  dad  !  we  were  so 
happy  together  !  " 

"  Yet  he  is  happier  now,  Elizabeth. 
Remember  how  much  he  suifered  latterly. 
Now  he  is  at  rest." 

"Ah!  Who  knows  that?"  she  said, 
looking  up  in  her  old  abrupt  way.  (Mr. 
Francis  had  left  the  room).  "  When  I 
saw  him  sutfering,  I  used  to  think  that 
sometimes  ;  but  who  can  tell  ?  His  body 
is  at  rest,  but  his  soul  may  be  suffwring," 
she  added,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  know  how  good  he  was,  Elizabeth, 
—  why  should  you  be  tormented  by  such 
a  fancy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  :  it  seems  to  me  I  ought 
to  pray  for  him,  but  I  don't  know  how. 
At  Ghent  they  used  too  oiler  up  masses 
for  the  repose  of  the  dead.  Mr.  Francis 
has  offered  them  up  for  him,  I  am  sure. 
Perhaps  it  may  do  good,  lor  who  knows 
any  thing  beyond  the  grave  ?     All's  dark." 

"  One  thing  isn't  dark.  Such  love  as 
his  cannot  end  with  life.  You're  sure  of 
that,  at  least  ?  " 

'•  I  think  so;  but,  all  the  same,  he  may 
be   suflering  now.     Oh,   dear  dad !     If  I 


only  knew  you  were  happy,  and  that  I 
should  join  you  soon  !  " 

I  was  perplexed  what  to  say  to  her ;  her 
frame  of  mind  was  so  strange.  "  The  long- 
est  life  is  but  very  short,  Elizabeth.  As 
to  his  happiness,  is  it  not  possible  that, 
putting  masses  aside,  that  may  be  still  in- 
iluenced  by  your  conduct?  Think  of  this 
if  your  lieart  is  inclined  to  rebel.  The 
life  we  lead,  and  not  the  death  we  die,  is 
the  important  thing ;  and  few  men,  I  be- 
lieve, ever  had  a  better  account  to  render 
up.  I  never  heard  him  say  a  harsh  thing, 
even  of  those  who  had  wronged  him  and 
you  ;  and  wrong  to  you  must  have  been 
hard  to  forgive,  for  you  were  his  only 
thought  in  life." 

"  I  was  —  I  was  —  and  oh  !  he  was  so 
patient,  so  indulgent.  He  was  father, 
mother,  every  thing  to  me  1  All  the 
times  I  was  disobedient  to  him  come  back 
to  me  now.  Who  ever  will  be  to  me  as 
he  was  ?  " 

"  No  one,  dear  Elizabeth,  can  be  to  you 
as  he  was.  But  the  last  time  I  saw  him  I 
promised  him  that  you  would  always  find 
a  brother  in  me,  —  that  I  would  protect 
your  interests  in  every  way  before  ray  own; 
and,  depend  upon  it,  I  will  keep  that 
promise." 

"  You're  very  good,"  said  Elizabeth,  in 
a  dead  tone  of  voice,  and  she  turned  her 
fact;  towards  the  fire.  The  dark  hol|ows 
under  her  eyes  made  them  look  twice  their 
natural  size.  She  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  still  looking  at  the  fiery  castles 
which  burned  with  a  still,  fierce  heat  in 
the  grate,  — 

"  He  was  fond  of  you,  Osmund." 

"  Yes,  I  thinXAie  was.  He  showed  it  by 
the  trust  he  placed  In  me.  I  am  so  glad 
to  have  known  him,  —  to  have  known  his 
real  worth,  and  that  he  had  a  regard  for 
me,  Elizabeth,  —  that  he  did  not  die  think- 
ing all  our  race  were  enemies  to  him 
and  you." 

"  He  did  not  believe  he  had  an  enemy. 
When  Cousin  Humphrey  said  hard  things, 
dear  dad  always  softened  them  away.  He 
thought  every  one  as  guileless  as  himself. 
His  last  words  were,  "I'm  at  peace  with 
all  the  world,  Liz."  Oh  !  my  dad,  my  dad  ! 
To  think  that  I  shall  never  hear  your  voice 
again  !  "  Here  she  sunk  on  her  knees  be- 
side the  bed  once  more.     "  I  can't  help  it, 

—  I  can't  1  My  heart  does  rebel.  A  few 
hours  ago  he  could  still  speak  to  me,  — 
still  call  me  Liz ;  and  now  he  is  silent 
forever !   Oh  !  why  can't   I  go  with  him  ? 

—  why  should  I  be  left  here  ?  No  one 
wants  me,  —  I'm  of  no  good  to  any  one.  I 
don't  want  to  stay." 

I  was  with  her  more  than  half  an  hour  ; 
and  Mr.  Francis  afterwards  said  that  this 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


119 


outburst  of  passionate  utterance,  which 
even  increased  in  vehemence,  and  lasted 
the  greater  jJart  of  the  time  I  was  there, 
was  the  first  vent  which  the  poor  child's 
grief  had  found.  They  had  not  heard  tlie 
sound  of  her  voice  before.  Her  hands  were 
hot,  her  eyes  were  dry ;  her  long,  anxious 
watch  and  etfort  at  self-control  had 
brought  her  into  this  unnatural,  feverish 
condition.  I  urged  upon  Cousin  Hum- 
phrey, whom  I  saw  on  leaving  Elizabeth, 
that  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for  to  look 
at  the  child  ;  and  this  was  done  before  I 
left  the  house. 

The  old  gentleman  was  taciturn  and 
fidgety,  getting  up  from  his  chair  every 
two  or  three  minutes  to  take  a  piece  of 
coal  off  the  fire,  and  then  to  put  it  on 
again  ;  to  move  the  lamp,  first  on  one  side 
of  the  table,  and  then  on  the  other  ;  lastly,  to 
ring  the  bell  for  the  patient  Anne  so  often, 
and  fire  off  such  numberless  questions  at 
her,  that  ray  belief  is  she  adopted  the  ex- 
pedient of  remaining  outside  the  door.  He 
said  nothing  of  any  importance  to  me  then, 
but  his  manner  was  kind  ;  and,  from  the 
word  or  two  he  let  drop  about  John,  I  saw 
that  he  felt  the  loss  of  a  man  who  was  his 
complete  contrast  in  every  respect  more 
than  I  had  thought  possible.  But  Eliza- 
beth was  the  subject  of  all  his  present 
anxiety.  Anne  was  sent  to  try  to  coax  her 
to  eat  some  dinner;  then,  when  that  em- 
bassy failed,  another  was  sent  with  a  cup 
of  tea ;  this  meeting  with  no  better  suc- 
cess, Mr.  Francis  went,  at  the  old  man's 
bidding,  to  conjure  her  to  take  nourish- 
ment in  some  Ibrm  or  other.  After  this, 
message  alter  message  was  sent,  begging 
her  to  allow  her  bed  to  be  moved  back  into 
her  room,  —  but  all  to  no  effect.  Then  it 
was  I  suggested  the  doctor's  seeing  her ; 
and  Anne  was  at  once  despatched  round 
the  corner  to  the  house  of  the  apothecary 
who  had  attended  John  through  all  his  ill- 
ness. After  this,  it  being  then  near  nine 
o'clock,  I  drove  to  the  club,  and  had  some 
dinner. 

I  was  in  Cheyne  Walk  early  the  follow- 
ing day.  Elizabeth  would  not  allow  that 
any  thing  was  the  matter  with  her  ;  but  she 
had  scarcely  tasted  iboil,  and  could  not  be 
got  to  swallow  the  cooling  draughts  which 
the  doctor  had  sent  her. 

"  She  is  generally  very  tractable  with 
me,"  said  Francis ;  "  but  I  have  used  all 
my  elo<juence  with  her  in  vain.  You  must 
try,  Osmund  :  she  may,  I  think,  listen  to 
you." 

And,  to  my  surprise,  she  did.  Almost 
without  a  word,  she  took  the  glass  from  my 
Land,  when  1  said, — 

"  You  will  take  this,  to  please  me,  if  for 
no   other   reason,   Elizabeth,   won't   you  ? 


Y''our  poor  father  would  be  grieved  if  he 
thought  that  you  refused  the  very  first 
thing  I  asked  of  you  when  he  was  gone." 

Francis  drew  me  aside  after  this,  and 
said, — 

"  Thanks  to  you,  we  have  gained  one 
point.  And  now,  as  I  have  told  Mr.  Hum- 
phrey, we  must  hurry  on  the  funeral,  for,  as 
long  as  the  body  is  here,  Elizabeth  will  not 
consent  to  leave  it ;  and  every  hour  she  re- 
mains in  this  morbid  condition  increases  the 
evil." 

As  he  had  foreseen,  the  two  days  that 
followed  were  very  anxious  ones.  Not 
even  my  supplications  prevailed  to  induce 
Elizabeth  to  leave  the  chamber  of  death, 
and  she  looked  wretchedly  ill.  The  in- 
ward fever  that  consumed  her  continued 
unabated.  What  nourishment  she  took 
was  at  my  hands ;  but  though  she  said  little, 
one  saw  how  diflicult  it  was  to  her  to 
swallow  even  a  few  mouthfuls.  Her  condi- 
tion was  one  which  made  me  apprehensive, 
if  it  lasted,  for  her  mind.  I  kept  my  fears 
to  myself;  but  I  felt,  as  I  looked  at  the  girl's 
hollow  glittering  eyes,  which  scarcely  left 
the  bed,  the  hard-clinched  mouth,  and  thin 
hands,  upon  which  every  vein  seemed  start- 
ing, that  the  sooner  the  last  act  in  the  sad 
drama  could  be  played  now,  the  better  for 
my  poor  little  cousin.  When  he  was  re- 
moved from  her  sight,  there  would  be  a 
natural  revulsion  of  feeling,  and  the  flood- 
gates of  the  child's  sorrow,  I  hoped,  would 
be  tmloosed. 

But  it  was  hardly  so.  We  followed  my 
cousin  John  to  the  grave  on  Saturday 
morning ;  Elizabeth,  as  chief  mourner, 
walking  like  one  in  a  dream,  with  rigid 
immovable  face  and  glassy  eyes  riveted 
upon  the  black  slow-moving  mass  before 
her.  Once,  and  only  once  during  the 
whole  service,  I  saw  a  shudder  run  through 
her  slight  frame,  when  the  first  handful  of 
earth  tell,  with  a  dull  thud,  upon  the  coffin. 
When  all  was  over,  she  remained,  with 
clasped  hands,  looking  down  into  the  open 
grave  tor  some  minutes.  Then,  as  it  were, 
with  a  wrench,  she  turned  swiftly  away  to- 
wards the  cemetery-gate. 

That  night  she  was  in  a  ravin";  fever. 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,"  said 
Cousin  Humj)hrey,  as  he  and  I  stood  with 
a  bottle  of  sherry  and  a  plate  of  biscuits 
before  us,  on  the  black-polished  mahogany 
table  in  the  little  parlor.  Oiu-  backs  were 
to  the  fire,  which  burned  brightly  ;  Hum- 
phrey took  a  copious  pinch  of  snuff  from 
ids  silver-box  before  he  continued,  "  It 
can't  be  long  before  I  follow  John  now,  — 
v\\  V  Elizabeth  will  then  be  left  alone  in 
the  world.  Every  farthing  I  have  will 
be  hers  —  d'ye  understand  V  " 


120 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


I  inurniurcd  to  the  efibct  tliat  I  was  glad 
to  lu'nr  it. 

"  Why  do  I  toll  you  this  ?  I  sec  no  use 
in  heating  about  tlie  hush.  I'm  a  practical 
man,  youknow.  Folks  can't  marry  without 
mouev  ;  and  John's  great  wish  was  tliat  yon 
and  siie  shotdd  make  a  match  of  it  I  didn't 
like  the  idea  at  first ;  I'd  a  prejudice  against 
all  your  brarch  of  the  family ;  that  you 
know.  But  I've  watched  you.  You're  an 
honest  lad,  and  you're  not  a  fool.  I  hate 
t&ols  !  Elizabeth  might  do  better  ;  but  she 
min'ht  do  worse.  John  would  have  liked  to 
see  von  engaged  befijre  he  died ;  but  that 
wasii't  to  be.  I've  taken  the  fii-st  oppor- 
tunity since  his  death  of  speaking  to  you, 
young  man,  because  I  like  plain  dealing." 

I  confess  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  the  old 
gentleman,  and  felt  rather  awkward  at  say- 
mg  what  I  felt  must  get  itself  said  some- 
ho"v.     Therefore,  I  jerked  out  bluntly^  — 

"  I  don't  think  my  poor  cousin  John  took 
personal  inclinations  into  consideration 
when  he  conceived  this  idea.  Elizabeth 
is  still  a  child,  and  has  no  notion  of  love  : 
she  is  more  like  a  boy,  as  you  know  —  not 
the  least  sentimental." 

"Hump!  Sentimental?  —  no.  But  she 
likes  you  ;  there's  no  doubt  about  that,  I 
take  it.  ]Mr.  Francis  says  you  can  do  more 
with  her  than  any  one." 

'•  I  have  some  little  influence  with  her, 
because  she  knows  her  father  was  fond  of 
me,  and  made  me  promise  always  to  look 
after  her.  And  so  I  will;  but  " —  here  1 
pauxed  —  "  that  is  a  different  thing  from 
marr}ing." 

His  shrewd  eyes  looked  up  under  their 
thick  eyebrows  into  my  face. 

"  Do'  you  mean  you  don't  like  her  well 
enough,  ehV  \Yhat's  amiss  with  her? 
They  told  me  you  took  an  uncommon  in- 
terest always  in  the  girl,  from  the  very  first." 
"  So  I  did;  first," because  I  believed,  in 
opposition  to  the  i-est  of  my  family,  that 
Elizabeth  is  the  rightful  heiress  to  the  Pen- 
ruddocke  estate.  That  was  her  first  claim 
to  mv  interest;  then,  the  more  I  came  to 
see  of  her,  the  more  her  very  original 
character  interested  me.  But  I  have  never 
thought  of  her  in  any  other  light  than  as 
a  sister ;  and  it  is  in  that  light  that  I  wish 
to  continue  to  regard  her." 

'•  Humph  !  "  grunted  the  old  man.  "  Then 
there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

That  he  communicated  the  substance  of 
this  conversation  to  Mr.  Francis,  I  had  not 
a  doubt,  but  the  latter  said  nothing  to  me  on 
the  subject.  Nor  did  he  allude  again  to 
those  last  words  of  Cousin  John's,  touching 
me,  of  whicli  he  had  spoken  vaguely  upon 
my  first  arrival. 

Elizabeth  remained  very  ill  for  some 
weeks. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

On  my  return  home  that  Saturday  even- 
ing, I  found  the  following  letter  from  my 
mother :  — 

"  Beaumanoir,  Jan.  8. 
My  dear  Osmund,  —  Your  letter  has 
pained  me  deeply,  on  account   of  the   con- 
tinued spirit  of  animosity  it  shows  towards 
myself.      How  could  you  tor  a  moment  im- 
agine that  I  should  disseminate  these  shock- 
ing rumors  of  your  immorality?     To  dear 
Mrs.  Hamleigh,  who  is  like  my  own  sister,  I 
have,  once  or  twice,  shown  the  wounds  of 
my  bleeding  heart ;  but  my  care  has  ever 
been  to  shield   you  as  much   as   possible 
from  the  worlil.     When  the  contrast    be- 
tween your  dear  brother  (wh(jse  conduct 
has  ever  been  all  my  fondest  hopes  could 
desire)  and  you  has  been  drawn  by  others, 
how  often  have  I  sought  to  excuse  you  on 
the  score  of  a   temperament,  which,  alas  ! 
you  inherit  from  your  poor   father  I     You 
have  caused  me  great  anxiety  and   great 
sorrow,  but  I  have  borne  my  cross  without 
mui'muriu'j: ;  and  I  should   not  write  now 
as  I  am  doing,  but  for  the  terms  in  wdiich 
you  have  thought  fit  to  address  me.     It  is 
very  sad  to  see  that  time  does  nothing  to 
soften  your  heart.     Tlie  pertinacious  way 
in  which,  ever  since  that  disgraceful  esca- 
pade of  yours,  you  have  refused   to  return 
to  this  roof,  is  in  itself  an   insult  to  both 
Raymond  and  myself,  and  the  absence  of 
any   filial  tone  in  your  letters   makes   me 
feel  but  too  keenly  that  you  have  complete- 
ly separated  your  lot  from  us.     I  should  be 
failing  in  my  duty  as  your  mother,  how- 
ever, if  I  did  not  point  out  how  destructive 
to  all  your  future  prospects  in  tJiis  world  — 
I   will    say   nothing   of  the   next  —  is   the 
course  upon  which  you   have  entered.     I 
trust  fervently  that  what  you  tell  me  is  the 
truth,  and  that  your  career  of  folly  stops 
short  of  actual  criminallt//  ;  but  the  system- 
atic   avoidance  of  all  girls  (especially  of 
those   possessing    an   independence),  and 
the    conspicuous    intiuiacy    with    married 
women  which  characterizes  the  young  men 
of  the  day,  I  am  told,  cannot  but  be  detri- 
mental to  your  chances  of   settling  satis- 
factorily  in    life.      Look    at   your    Uncle 
Levison.    how    he    has    thrown    away    his 
chances  1     He  might  have  married  advan- 
tageously, but  he  preferred  the  repiitation 
of  beiug  a  smart  man  about  London ;  and 
how  much  good  is  that  of  now,  in   his  old 
age  ?     He  is  always  in  diflicultii-s,  and  the 
strug'j;le  to  retain  something  of  youth  makes 
him  ridiculous  to  the  younger  generation, 
who  regard  him  as  a  bore.     That  is  wdiat 
the  aduured    Col.  Levison   Rich  has  conae 
to;  you  know  it  even  better  than  I  do; 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


121 


and  that  is  wliat  such  a  career  as  yours  will 
lead  you  to  become.  If  you  were  wise, 
you  would  now  look  out  for  a  nicu;  <.drl  with 
money  ;  lor,  though  I  attach  but  little  value 
to  money  myself,  in  your  case  it  is  abso- 
hitely  essential  that  your  wife  should  have 
some  fortune  of  her  own.  It  is  true- that 
no  <iirl  who  is  penniless  would  think  of 
marryinf^  you.  Your  means,  thanks  to 
your  own  wilfulness,  are  smaller  tlian  they 
need  have  been,  and  you  have  no  pros- 
pects ;  you  can  never  liave  more  than  you 
now  possess ;  therefore,  it  is  necessary, 
that,  if  you  ever  do  think  of  marriage,  it 
should  be  with  some  one  who  has  at  least 
a  competency.  I  have  little  hope  that  any 
words  of  mine  will  liave  mucli  weight,  but 
I  have  eased  my  conscience  by  placing 
your  position  plainly  before  you.  And 
now  I  have  done.  Tliat  you  may  be  led 
into  a  better  path  prays  your  grieved,  but 
always  atfectionate  mother, 

"  Rachel  Penruddocke." 

I  look  upon  this  to  have  been  a  very 
clever  letter.  To  any  one  ignorant  of  the 
actual  circumstances,  how  completely  it 
made  me  appear  in  the  wrong  !  The  sys- 
tem of  carrying  war  boldly  into  the  ene- 
my's country  was  never  more  successfully 
adopted.  My  grievance  was  passed  over 
with  scarce  a  word,  —  nothing  that  I  had 
advanced  was  actually  denied  ;  though  ex- 
ception had  been  adroitly  taken  to  the 
word  "  disseminate  ;  "  but  then,  "  the 
wounds  of  her  bleeding  heart,"  which  she 
had  shown  to  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  might  mean 
just  as  much,  or  as  little,  as  the  writer 
pleased.  How  skilfully  she  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  opening  I  had  given  her,  to 
preach  the  most  worldly  doctrine  in  the 
most  highly  moral  tone  I  IIow  cynically 
she  had  pointed  her  advice  by  a  reference 
to  my  Uucle  Levison  1  And  how  ingen- 
iously she  had  contrived  to  warn  me,  in 
terms  apparently  of  general  application, 
that  it  would  be  worse  than  folly  for  me  to 
cherish  any  hopes  of  ever  winning  Evelyn  ! 
I  had  chosen  to  be  a  poor  man  ;  and  it  was 
not  for  such  as  I  to  think  of  marrying  for 
love,  if,  haply,  I  should  entertain  such  an 
idea.  Surely  the  letter  was  a  model  in  its 
way. 

1  walked  into  White's  on  Sunday,  and 
asked  for  my  Uncle  Levison,  whom  I  had 
not  seen  now  since  the  summer ;  but  he 
was  out  of  town. 

"  It  is  of  little  consequence,"  I  sahl,  as  I 
walked  away.  "  It  suits  my  mother's  pur- 
pose, and  Mrs.  Hamleigh's,  to  believe,  or 
affect  to  believe,  these  re{)orts  of  me. 
NotJjing  that  my  uncle  could  say,  even  if  I 
got  him  to  declare  they  were  a  pack  of 
lies  (which  perhajjs  I  could  not  do),  would 


alter  their  tone  about  me,  —  I  see  that  now. 
Nothing  but  my  marrying  Miss  Guildmore, 
or  some  girl  of  that  sort,  would  suddenly 
transform  me  into  a  paragon  of  virtue. 
Well,  no  matter.  Evelyn  still  loves  me, — 
I  feel  quite  sure  of  that ;  and  they  cannot 
prevent  our  meeting  during  the  season. 
She  thinks  me  an  awful  reprobate  now, 
poor  child ;  but  she  won't  be  so  hard  to 
undeceive  as  her  mother." 

On  Monday  I  heard  from  Arthur  Tuf- 
ton.  To  my  amazement,  his  letter  was 
dated  from  Mrs.  Hawksley's. 

"  I  came  on  here  from  Kendal  Castle 
yesterday  (Saturday),"  he  wrote ;  "  the 
good-natured  hostess  of  the  charming  place 
having  invited  me  to  spend  a  few  days 
here,  so  that  I  shall  not  be  in  town  before 
the  end  of  the  week  at  earliest,  —  indeed, 
I  shall  probably  have  to  go  home  from 
here  on  business.  My  return  to  London, 
therefore,  is  uncertain."  After  asking  me 
to  do  something  for  him,  he  went  on  to 
say,  "  The  Hamleighs,  as  you  know,  are 
sta,ying  here.  She  —  I  mean  the  girl  —  is 
the  most  delightful  specimen  of  sweet, 
fresh  youth,  with  just  a  tinge  of  sadness 
(arising,  her  mother  says,  from  the  soli- 
tude in  which  she  has  always  lived).  She 
is  like  a  girl  in  an  old  romance,  and  be- 
longs altogether  to  a  different  world  from 
that  of  the  fast  and  fashionable  young 
ladies  of  the  day.  I  cannot  understand 
why  you  never  named  them  to  me  —  Miss 
Hamleigh,  that  is  to  sav.  I  imagine  there 
is  some  coolness  between  the  families ;  but 
this  would  not  affect  your  natural  admira-  ■ 
tion  for  so  lovely  a  girl  as  your  cousin. 
Yet  from  her  manner  to  you  at  the  ball, 
and  her  mother's  tone  whenever  I  have 
spoken  of  you,  I  can  see  there  is  no  cor- 
diality." In  a  postscript  he  added,  "I 
am  glad  you  beat  a  retreat  when  you  did. 
I     applauded    your    wisdom     immensely. 

Lady  C tried  to  get  up  a  mild  flirtation 

with  young  Ashridge,  after  you  left,  but 
it  came  to  nothing.  There  was  more 
scandal  talked,  liowever,  the  last  day  than 
ever.  D'Arnheim  and  Mrs.  Hartman 
Wild  were  the  subjects   of  it.     It   seems 

Madame  d'A had  received  a  bracelet 

by  post  some  days  before.  The  parcel  was 
addressed  distinctly  to  her,  and  she  hap- 
pened to  open  it  when  the  letters  were 
distributed  at  the  breakfast-table.  Lady 
L.  1'}  nsent,  who  was  next  her,  saw  the 
bracelet  when  Madame  d'Arnheim  opened 
the  case,  and  instantly  slmt  it  again, 
whereupon  the  venomous  old  spinster  of 
course  asked  her  what  "  that  pretty  thing" 
was,   and  where  it   came  from.     Madame 

d'A replied  calmly  that   it  was  some 

mistake  —  it  came  apparently  from  Han- 
cock's ;  but  it  was  not  for  her.     You  will 


122 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  all  the  old 
•women  were  persuaded  it  cauie  from  you, 
ami  remained  in  that  belief  until  the  fol- 
lowing eveninfj,  when  the  bracelet  ap- 
peared on  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Ilartman  Wild!" 

This  letter  did  not  find  me  in  very  gooil 
spirits;  and,  it  will  readily  be  believed,  it 
did  not  contribute  to  raise  them.  I  cursed 
my  folly  in  not  having  spoken  openly  to 
Arthur  that  night  that  we  were  alone  after 
the  ball.  However  painful  to  myself,  I 
ought  to  have  run  the  risk  of  being  treated 
as  a  susceptible  boy,  whose  flirtations  were 
so  numerous  that  no  serious  weight  could 
be  attached  to  the  confession  of  an  addi- 
tional one.  That  would  only  have  affect- 
ed myself;  whereas  the  mischief  now  I 
feared  already  done  was  mischief  which 
afl'ected  my  friend.  I  reproached  myself 
sorely.  I  knew  how  Mrs.  Hamleigh  would 
be  sure  to  regard  the  advances  of  a  man 
in  Arthur's  position,  for  her  daughter, 
even  were  he  less  charming  than  Lord 
Tufton ;  but  the  hope  of  detaching  her 
from  me  would  render  Mrs.  Hamleigh 
doubly  eager  to  encourage  so  fascinating 
a  suitor  for  Evelyn's  hand  at  this  moment. 
His  affections  would  become  more  and 
more  engaged,  that  I  foresaw ;  and  I  felt 
very  sure  that  he  was  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment. 

"  But,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  it  is  too  late  ; 
I  have  no  longer  any  right  to  speak. 
When  Arthur  first  saw  Evelyn  it  would 
have  been  natural  that  I  should  have  con- 
fided the  story  of  our  early  love  to  him. 
He  has  continued  the  acquaintance  in  ig- 
norance of  the  state  of  my  heart,  and  what 
business  have  I  to  step  in  now,  and  cry 
'  Hands  off  ?  '  The  field  is  open  to  us 
both.  On  his  side  is  every  physical,  every 
mental,  every  worldly  advantage ;  on 
mine,  Evelyn's  attachment.  We  are  not 
engaged ;  we  have  only  met  once  since 
she  was  a  child ;  she  does  not  even  believe 
in  my  fidelity ;  on  the  contrary,  she  be- 
lieves me  to  be  a  reprobate,  and  she  prays 
for  my  reform.  I  feel  very  sure  that  she 
will  not  give  me  up ;  but,  for  all  that, 
should  I  be  justified  now  in  preventing 
mv  friend  from  trying  his  chances  against 
me  V  " 

I  decided  not ;  the  evil  was  done ;  it 
must  be  left  to  work  itself  out.  Neverthe- 
less, I  was  Very  miserable. 

The  week  passed  slowly  away.  I 
walked  daily  to  Cheyne  Walk  to  learn 
tidings  of  Elizabeth,  and  generally  took 
with  me  a  few  flowers  from  Covent  Gar- 
den. I  did  not  see  her :  the  sccur  de 
charite  who  had  answered  John  now  at- 
tended her,  and  the  doctors  enjoined  per- 
fect quiet.  She  was  not  absolutely  in 
danger ;  but  the  constitution,  at  her  early 


age,  had  been  subjected  to  a  severe  strain, 
and  it  was  in  a  measure  doubtful  how  far 
it  would  recover  from  this.  Humphrey 
was  very  anxious,  and  Mr.  Francis  scarce- 
ly less  so.  The  latter  was  the  only  person 
besides  the  doctor  and  the  nurse  who  en- 
tered the  sick-room.  On  the  Thursday  he 
said  to  me, — 

"  The  poor  child  did  nothing  but  rave 
about  you  all  last  night.  The  fever  has 
now  assumed  an  intermittent  character. 
She  is  quite  prostrate  to-day,  and  can 
scarcely  raise  her  hand  to  her  head." 

I  expressed  my  sorrow,  and  said  I  had 
brought  her  some  of  the  last  hot-house 
grapes  of  the  year. 

"I  will  give  them  to  her,  but  not  in 
your  name,  ray  dear  Osmund,"  said  Fran- 
cis, looking  at  me  with  a  grave,  meaning 
look.  "  I  fear  it  might  only  excite  her. 
Not  to  talk,  nor  to  listen —  if  possible,  not 
to  think  —  this  is  what  the  overwrought 
system  now  demands.  You  look  ill  your- 
self, ray  boy,  as  if  you  had  not  slept  last 
night.     AVas  it  anxiety  about  Elizabeth?  " 

If  he  lioped  I  should  say  "  yes,"  he  was 
disappointed,  good  man.  I  replied  that 
Elizabeth  had  such  a  fine  constitution,  1 
felt  but  little  real  anxiety  about  her.  I 
had  a  conviction  that  her  recovery,  though 
slow,  would  be  complete. 

"  So  the  doctors  think.  They  say,  that, 
as  soon  as  ever  she  can  be  moved,  change 
of  air  and  scene  will  do  more  than  any 
thing  for  her." 

Then  he  added,  after  a  pause,  — 

"  The  great  difficulty,  I  foresee,  will  be 
to  give  her  an  object  and  interest  in  liie 
now." 

"  In  the  course  of  time  she  will  marry," 
I  saiil. 

"  Ah  !  will  she  ?  Not  unless  she  is  in 
love  with  the  man  who  asks  her.  She 
will  never  marry  from  expediency,  or  any 
other  motive,  Osmund." 

"  Oh  !  but  she  will  fall  in  love  by  and 
by,  I  hope,  like  every  other  girl.  At  pres- 
ent she  has  seen  no  one  ;  and  her  thoughts, 
fortunately,  don't  run  on  the  subject.  She 
has  too  healthy  and  vigorous  a  nature  for 
such  rubbish." 

"  She  has  a  healthy  and  vigorous  nature, 
and  will  not  succumb  to  weakness.  In 
that  lies  my  great  hope  for  her." 

He  said  no  more ;  and  I  can  recall 
nothing  else  during  the  remainder  of  the 
week  that  had  any  bearing  on  the  events 
recorded  here.  Sunday  came  and  went ; 
and  then  Monday,  the  most  eventful  Mon- 
day in  my  life,  dawned.  It  was  not  till 
evening  had  closed  in,  however,  that  I  re- 
ceived a  telegram  at  my  club,  which  made 
me  start  fpom  the  dinner-table,  fling  my- 
.self  into  a  hansom,  and  tell  the  driver  he 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


123 


should  have  five  shillin;2;s  if  I  caught  the 
"  ei'^ht  down-train,"  from  Waterloo. 

The  telegram  I  received  —  tlie  telecrrani 
which  obliged  me  to  revoke  my  vow  never 
to  return  to  Beaumanoir  —  was  from  the 
old  butler  there,  and  ran  as  Ibllows  :  — 

"  Six  o'clock. 

"  Sir,  —  Please  come  at  once.  There  has 
been  an  awful  accident  to  rmj  kubj  and  Mr. 
Raymond.     The  latter,  we  fear,  />•  dying. 

"  Richard  Sparshott." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

It  was  quite  true.  I  reached  Beauma- 
noir soon  after  midnight.  Sparshott  had 
sent  the  dog-cart  to  the  station  on  the 
chance  of  my  catching  the  last  train,  and 
from  the  groom  who  drove  it  I  heard  the 
main    facts.     My   mother    and    Ray   had 

driven   into    W with   a  new  pair  of 

horses,  which,  on  the  road  home,  took 
fright  at  something,  going  down  the  steep 
hill  which  leads  out  of  the  town,  ran  away 
for  two  miles,  and  finally  dashed  against 
the  railway  bridge  and  uj)set  the  carriage. 
My  mother  was  taken  up  insensible,  but 
she  was  not  seriously  hurt.  Raymond  had 
fallen  on  his  head,  and  had  moreover  sus- 
tained internal  injuries,  irom  which  there 
was  no  hope  of  his  recovering. 

Thus  much  I  learnt  from  the  groom 
during  that  bitter  drive  over  the  Dorset- 
shire downs.  I  had  started  without  my 
dinner,  and  without  an  overcoat,  and  I  was 
frozen.  It  seemed  horrible  to  be  thinking 
of  my  personal  discomfort  at  such  a  mo- 
ment ;  but  as  we  drove  through  one  of  the 
small  villages  on  our  road,  and  I  saw  a 
light  still  burning  in  the  tap-room  of  the 
"  public,"  I  could  not  resist  drawing  up, 
and  orderincj  the  "room  to  go  and  brinir 
me  a  glass  of  brandy,  gin  —  any  thing  —  to 
infuse  a  little  caloric  into  me.  My  teeth 
chattered,  and  I  had  lost  all  feeling  in  my 
legs  and  arms.  Was  it  from  purely  physi- 
cal causes  that  my  heart  was  also  be- 
numbed?—  that  I  could  awake  no  more 
than  a  sort  of  dull  stupefied  horror  witliin 
me  ? 

Ths  lodge-gates  were  open.  Wo  drove 
through  the  dear  old  park,  every  hawthorn 
of  which  I  knew  so  well ;  the  outlines  of 
those  near  the  road  just  visible  now  in  the 
darkness,  as  we  shot  by  them.  The  shadow 
of  night  had  rested  upon  me,  and  on  my 
home,  when  I  had  bidden  it  farewell  two 
years  and  a  half  before ;  and  it  was  night 
again  now  that  I  returned  here,  but  under 
what  dilFerent  circumstances  !  It  is  strange, 
that,  though  thought  and  feeling  were  al- 


most inactive  at  this  moment,  my  observa- 
tion of  outward  things  was  keenly  alive. 
I  remember  saying  to  the  groom,  "  The 
road  used  to  go  down  that  dip — it  has 
been  turned."  Five  minutes  afterwards 
we  drove  under  the  gray  stone  portico. 

The  sound  of  the  wheels  on  the  gravel 
brought  two  or  three  servants  to  the  door; 
and  behind  them,  in  the  hall,  stood  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Putney.  I  was  anxiously  expect- 
ed, and  yet  I  was  received  in  ])erfect  silence. 
I  looked  in  their  laces.  Old  Sparshott 
shook  his  head,  and  clasped  his  hands ; 
and  then  I  guessed  the  truth.  All  was 
over  :  my  brother  had  breathed  his  last 
half  an  hour  before. 

I  stood  motionless  for  a  minute.  The 
servants  shut  the  hall-door  very  quietly, 
then  one  of  them  took  my  hat ;  not  a  word 
was  spoken  ;  there  was  no  sound  but  the 
ticking  of  the  great  hall-clock.  I  followed 
Mr.  Putney  mechanically  into  the  dining- 
room.  A  wood  fire  burned  merrily  on  the 
hearth  ;  its  warmth  seemed  gradually  to 
melt  my  congealed  heart,  and  unloose  my 
tongue. 

"  How  is  my  poor  mother  ?  " 

"  Wonderfully  supported,  Osmund  !  won- 
derfully ;  though  mu(  h  cut  and  bruiced  her- 
self, she  never  left  dear  Mr.  Ravmond's 
bedside.  Ah  !  what  a  blow  !  Mysterious, 
indeed,  are  the  ways  of  Providence. 
Trulv,  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in 
death  !  " 

"  My  poor  mother !  "  was  all  I  could  say. 
I  could  not  quote  texts  appropriate  to  the 
occasion,  but  I  felt  proibundly  awed ;  and 
the  rector  took  my  silence  for  insensibil- 
ity. 

"  Ah !  such  an  admirable  young  man, 
who  never  gave  Lady  Rachel  a  moments 
uneasiness,  to  be  snatched  away  thus ! 
Ah  !  dear,  dear  !  One  can  only  say,  '  The 
Lord  loveth  whom  he  chasteneth  ! '  Ter- 
rible, terrible  ! " 

"  Does  she  know  I  was  sent  for  ?  "  I  asked 
presently. 

"  Yes,  but  she  desired  she  might  not  be 
disturbed  until  she  rang  the  bell.  Her 
religious  fortitude  is  a  pattern  to  everyone. 
A  wonderful  woman,  truly  —  yes,  a  won- 
derful woman  !     Ah  !  dear,  dear  !  " 

After  another  silence  of  some  minutes,  I 
said,  — 

"  Was  poor  Ray  conscious  at  the  last  ?  " 

He  was  conscious  for  an  hour  or  two  pre- 
vious to  his  death,  and  he  was  in  a  very 
blessed  state  of  mind." 

"  AVas  he  left  alone  with  my  mother  ?  " 

"  No,  I  was  thei'C  all  the  time.  It  was 
truly  edifying  !  " 

"  And  did  he  say  nothiitg  ?  —  nothing 
particular,  I  mean  ?  It  ilid  not  appear  to 
I  you  that  there  was  any  thing  on  his  mind  ?  " 


124 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  On  liis  mind  ?  Oh,  de.ir,  no  !  IIow 
slumld  there  be,  leadin^j;  such  a  spotless  life, 
dear  young  man,  as  he  had  done  V  " 

I  felt  that  I  could  not  continue  this  con- 
versation much  lou'ier.  ]\Ir.  Putney's  stere- 
otyped phrases  choked  me  at  this  solemn 
moment,  and  I  was  really  faint  with  hunger. 
I  hailed  Sparshoti's  entry  with  a  tray  of 
Cold  meat,  though  I  saw  by  the  rector's  look 
of  ])ious  amazement,  Avhen  I  fell  to  eating, 
that  he  held  it  unseemly  to  the  last  degree 
that  I  should  satisfy  the  demands  of  the 
Hesh  instead  of  listening  to  his  platitudes. 
It  showed  a  callous  and  unregenerated  na- 
ture. I  could  not  help  it :  I  did  not  wish 
to  shock  or  wound  any  one  ;  but  the  pangs 
of  hunger  were  too  strong  for  me. 

"  As  I  can  be  no  longer  of  any  use  here 
now,  I  see,"  said  the  rector,  in  a  mildly  re- 
proachful voice,  "  I  will  bid  you  '  good- 
night.' I  only  staid  here  to  give  you  the 
last  sad  particulars  of  your  blessed  broth- 
er's end,  Mr.  Penruddocke.  My  mission  is 
over.  I  shall  call  early  to  inquire  after 
her  ladyship,  and  perhaps  she  may  desire  to 
see  me.  She  has  been  always  pleased  to 
say  she  has  found  comfort  in  my  ministry." 

"  Gooil-night,  Mr.  Putney,"  said  I,  look- 
ing up  from  my  plate,  •'  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  staying.  You  must  for- 
give my  eating,  instead  of  my  talking  more 
just  now.  I  started  without  any  dinner, 
and  I'm  dead  beat." 

How  glad  I  was  to  get  rid  of  him  !  After 
I  had  satisfied  the  first  cravings  of  hunger, 
I  called  in  Sparshott,  and  made  the  faithful 
old  man  give  me,  ia  his  simple,  straight- 
forward way,  evei"y  detail  of  that  sad  after- 
noon's history.  And  mui-h  more  did  the 
unvarnished  tale  move  me  than  the  rector's 
funeral  oration  upon  the  virtues  of  the  de- 
parted. 

My  poor  mother  —  I  could  think  of  noth- 
ing else  but  her.  Raymond  I  had  loved 
too  little  for  his  death  to  affect  me  person- 
ally. All  my  sorrow  was  for  my  mother. 
For  the  first  time  for  many  years  my  heart 
felt  softened  towards  her.  I  thought  of 
how,  as  a  little  child,  I  had  envied  Ray  his 
place  upon  her  knee,  while  I  was  sent  to  the 
nursery,  or  was  at  most  suffered  to  play  in 
a  distant  corner  of  the  drawing-room;  ami 
of  how,  as  he  grew  up,  all  that  he  did  had 
seemed  good  in  her  e\  es,  while  through  me, 
the  scapegrace,  came  only  mortification  and 
bitterness.  Xone  knew  so  well  as  I  what 
my  bi-other's  loss  would  be  to  her.  He  had 
been  her  sole  aim  in  lii'e,  in  whom  all 
ambition,  hope,  and  pride  were  centred. 
Like  her  namesake  of  old,  for  him,  for  her 
favorite  son,  had  she  sinned  grievously ;  for 
his  sake  had  she  done  that  which  must  sit 
heavily  on  her  conscience  in  the  still  watch- 
es of  the  night.     And  how  could  it  profit 


her  now  ?  Her  first-born  was  taken,  and  I 
was  left ;  I  for  whom  she  had  never  cared 
—  I  who  was  as  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  her  1 
Like  the  Rachel  of  Scripture  again,  T  knew 
that  she  could  "  not  be  comforted,"  for  her 
child,  the  onlv  child  of  her  heart,  "  was 
not." 

Truly,  I  also  could  read  a  lesson,  though 
not  the  same  as  the  rector's,  in  this  terrible 
catastrophe. 

I  was  roused  from  a  painful  reverie  by 
Sparshott. 

"  Pve  got  ready  your  old  little  room, 
Master  Osmund.  I  thought  you'd  like  it 
better  than  any  other  "  —  and  he  stood  at 
the  door,  with  the  bed-candlestick  in  his 
hand,  evidently  thinking  I  had  ruminated 
over  the  fire  loivi  enou2;h.  I  rose  and  fol- 
lowed  him. 

"You  did  quite  right,  Sparshott:  I 
wouldn't  have  had  any  other  room  for  the 
world.  I  suppose  I  must  go  to  bed  ;  but,  if 
my  mother  asks  for  me,  mind  you  tell  her 
maid  to  call  me  at  once." 

"  Her  ladyship  will  not  ring  her  bell  now 
till  the  mornin'j,  I  think.  Master  Osmund  ; 
and  I'll  come  in  to  you  early,  sir.  Good- 
night," and,  at  the  door  of  my  room,  the  old 
butler  left  me. 

I  entered  those  four  narrow  walls,  where 
I  had  once  been  so  happy,  and  from  which  I 
had  now  been  self-exiled  so  long,  with  a 
strange  confhct  at  heart.  Have  you  ever  met 
after  many  years,  a  friend  who  is  indissolu- 
bly  bound  up  with  bitter  memories  ?  You 
loved  him,  and  the  first  sight  of  his  f;xce 
brings  a  thrill  of  pleasure  ;  but  a  rush  of 
painful  thought  follows  — you  are  sorry  you 
have  met. 

There  stood  the  little  white  dimitv  bed  : 
the  row  of  my  favorite  books,  as  a  boy, 
against  the  wall  ;  the  fishing-rod,  and  the 
gun,  a  wretched  water-color  of  my  father 
over  the  mantle-piece  and  a  couple  of  herons 
which  I  hail  shot  and  had  stuifed  ;  all  my 
favorite  household  gods  untouched,  exactly 
as  I  had  left  them,  nearly  three  years  ago. 

I  drew  back  the  window-curtain  and 
looked  out.  The  branches  of  the  old  witch- 
elm  had  cq-own  now  verv  nearly  to  touch  the 
window-sill  ;  beyond  it  lay  the  dark  mass 
of  laurels :  and  then,  in  the  starlight,  I 
could  just  distinguish  (because  my  eyes 
knew  its  outline  so  well)  the  church-tower, 
under  the  shadow  of  which  I  had  seen 
and  suffei'ed  that  which  had  been  the 
tuining-jjoiiit  in  my  existence.  That  one 
hour  had  influenced,  and  would  continue  to 
influence,  all  my  subsequent  life.  It  could 
never  be  forgotten  or  done  away  with  : 
it  had  severed  me  from  my  home,  it  liad 
embittered  all  my  domestic  relations. 
Griefs  will  heal  in  time,  and  quarrels  may 
be  adjusted;  but   the   annihilation    of  re- 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


125 


spect,  the  shame  attendant  upon  dishonor, 
where  this  ruin  is,  nothino;  endurinij:  can 
ever  more  be  built  up. 

IIow  would  it  be  henceforward  between 
my  mother  and  me  ?  The  intense  compassion 
I  felt  made  me  hope  that  she  would  in  time 
find  some  comlbrt  in  me  ;  but  I  dreaded 
the  meeting;;.  Where  no  strong  sympathy 
exists,  intercoiu'se  at  moments  of  over- 
whelming misery  is  doubly  difficult.  She 
knew  but  too  well  that  her  sorrow  was  not 
mine,  in  any  lieartfelt  sense  :  there  was  not 
even  that  bond  of  union  between  us —  a  com- 
mon grief  I  could  not  wondei',  poor  thing  ! 
that  she  showed  no  alacrity  to  receive  me. 

I  lay  awake  for  a  long  time,  but  at  last 
slept  soumlly,  and  was  only  roused  by  the 
old  butler's  opening  the  shutters.  I  start- 
ed up. 

"  Has  my  lady  rung  her  bell  ?  Has  she 
asked  for  me,  Sparshott  ?  " 

"  ]\Iy  lady  is  up.  Master  Osmund,  and  she 
knows  as  you  are  come,"  said  the  old 
servant,  with  some  hesitation  of  manner ; 
"  but  —  she  hasn't  asked  for  you  yet." 
Then,  seeing  me  lie  down  again,,  and  turn 
my  face  towards  the  wall,  he  continued, 
with  a  misapprehension  as  to  my  feelings 
which  was  natural  under  the  circumstances, 
"  You  see,  Master  Osmund,  you  must  give 
her  time.  It's  no  use  going  again'  nature. 
My  lady  was  that  fond  of  Master  Ray,  she 
can't  come  round  all  of  a  sudden  ;  and  you 
know  what  my  lady  is  —  she  ain't  one  as 
can  bear  to  show  her  feelings.  You  must 
give  her  a  bit  time." 

In  truth,  I  was  not  the  least  wounded  : 
it  could  hardly  be  otherwise.  And  yet 
how  strangely  paradoxical  it  sounded  to 
talk  of  its  "  going  against  nature  "  lor  a 
mother  to  welcome  her  only  surviving  son  ! 
I  do  not  think  it  seemed  so  to  Sparshott. 
Like  most  of  the  servants,  he  lived  under 
the  impression  that  his  mistress  was  a  su- 
perior order  of  being,  whose  thoughts  and 
ways  were  not  those  of  common  humanity, 
or  to  be  judged  by  any  ordinary  standard. 
I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  she  was 
loved  ;  but  her  opinion  was  law,  and  her 
actions  were  ever  unquestioned.  That 
sweet  voice,  that  had  never  been  raised 
above  its  ordinary  pitch  in  my  recollection, 
that  calm,  goddess-like  beauty  and  benefi- 
cent dignity  of  demeanor,  were  influences 
which  1  had  once  felt  myself,  and  which,  I 
knew,  subjected  nearly  all  who  approached 
her,  more  especially  her  inferiors. 

Sparshott  had  lived  at  Beaumanoir  ever 
since  my  motiier's  marriage  ;  he  was  no 
fool,  and  was  cognizant  of  much  in  those 
twenty-four  years  which  must  have  seemed 
to  him  blameworthy;  but,  if  he  ever  .sul- 
fered  himself  to  criticise  his  mistress's  con- 
duct, it  was  in  the  inward  recesses  of  his 


heart  alone.  To  others,  even  to  me,  my 
lady  was  spoken  of  as  an  oracle,  whose 
utterances  were  to  be  accepted  as  all-wise 
and  irrevocable. 

I  got  up  by  and  by,  dressed,  and  went 
down  to  breakfast.  The  house  seemed 
unnaturally  still ;  maids  and  men  alike 
glided  to  and  fro  with  a  muffled  tread  ; 
the  very  dogs  looked  as  if  they  knew  they 
ought  not  to  bark  and  frisk  about.  They 
growled  a  protest  as  a  shabby  fellow  passed 
the  dining-room  windows.  I  guessed 
rightly  it  was  the  undertaker.  Then  there 
came  another  step  upon  the  gravel,  and 
they  pricked  up  their  ears,  but  did  not 
growl :  they  belonged  to  too  orthodox  a 
household  to  treat  the  rector  so  discourte- 
ously. 

While  Mr.  Putney  was  parleying  with 
Sparshott  in  the  hall,  my  mother's  maid 
entered  the  dining-room. 

"  Her  ladyship  is  ready  to  receive  you, 
sir,  if  you  will  come  up  to  her  room." 

I  followed  her. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

The  room  was  darkened.  My  mother 
was  standing  erect  near  the  fireplace,  as 
if,  by  her  very  attitude,  she  wished  to  show 
that  she  would  not  succumb  to  weakness, 
and  needed  no  support.  Her  forehead  and 
cheek  had  been  cut,  and  were  bound  up 
with  black  plaster,  which  increased  the 
extreme  pallor  of  her  face.  It  was  abso- 
lutely motionless.  The  eyes  were  like 
blue  stones  ;  her  beautiful  Vandyck  hands 
were  folded  calmly  together ;  the  smooth 
bands  of  hair  were  partially  shrouded  by  a 
black  veil. 

"  JNIy  dear  mother  !  "  I  began,  and  ran 
up  to  her  with  open  arms. 

She  pressed  her  cold  lips  to  my  fore- 
head. Neither  of  us  spoke  again  for  a 
minute  or  two. 

"  This  is  very  terrible,  mother  ! "  I  said 
at  last. 

"  It  is  God's  will,"  she  murmured  ;  and 
the  hollow  tone  of  her  voice  was  almost  the 
only  indication  of  feeling  she  gave.  "  It 
seems  like  a  dreadful  (keam  at  present; 
but  I  shall  come  to  realize  it,  by  and  by, 
only  too  well.  To  think  that  this  time 
yesterday  "  —  She  stoi)ped  short,  and  I 
saw  her  breast  heave.  "  I  never  contem- 
plated the  possibility  of  his  dying  before 
me.  My  beautiful,  gifted  Ray  1  God  help 
me  to  bear  my  cross  !  " 

I  was  affected,  as  I  knew  I  should  be; 
but  her  sell-control  during  the  whole  of 
our  interview  was  wonderful.  She  seemed 
surjjrised  that  I  should  be  moved,  making 


126 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


use,  as  I  well  remember,  of  an  expression 
■which  pained  me  exc'eodiiijily  at  the  time, 
for  it  probed  so  near,  without  touching  the 
actual  truth. 

"  Of  course  this  irreparable  loss  to  me  is 
only  gain  to  you.  You  never  knew  your 
brother,  and  cannot  feel  his  death :  I  do 
not  expect  it.  It  leaves  you  in  sole  pos- 
session of  this  property ;  and  as  you 
never  loved  Hay,  you  cannot  pretend  to  be 
sorry  —  you  cannot  really  feel  for  me  —  I 
know  this."  Then  she  went  on  calmly  to 
discuss  the  arrangements  for  the  funeral, 
and  -wrote  down  the  names  of  one  or  two 
persons  she  wished  to  be  invited.  "  You 
will  give  what  further  orders  you  think 
■well,  Osmund.  Of  course  every  thing  is  in 
your  hands  now  :  I  can  only  suggest.  I 
hope  that  proper  resjiect  may  be  paid  to 
your  dear  brother's  memory,  that  is  all.  I 
will  write  myself  to  your  Uncle  Levison, 
and  to  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  and  ask  them  to 
come  for  the  funeral.  I  should  wish  all 
the  nearest  members  of  the  family  to  be 
present.  Of  course  the  neighbors  will  all 
offer  to  send  their  carriages ;  let  them 
come  ;  let  every  possible  honor  be  paid  to 
the  memory  of  my  poor  boy.  I  repeat, 
that  is  all  I  ask  of  you." 

Naturally,  there  was  but  one  reply,  — 
that  her  wishes  should  be  complied  with. 
However  distasteful  to  myself  the  parade 
of  pompous  obsequies,  if  they  afibrded  any 
consolation  (strange  that  they  could  do 
so !)  to  my  bereaved  mother,  I  had  no 
choice  but  to  accede. 

I  Avas  fully  employed  the  rest  of  that  day 
in  giving  orders  and  writing  letters ; 
among  the  latter  to  Little,  the  family  law- 
yer, and  to  Mr.  Francis,  praying  for  their 
presence  at  Beaumanoir  by  the  early  train 
on  Saturday.  With  Little  this  was  a  mat- 
ter of  course;  not  so  with  Francis,  and  I 
was  by  no  means  sure  that  my  mother 
would  wish  him  to  be  invited  ;  but  I  had 
my  own  reasons  for  earnestly  begging  him 
to  come,  were  it  only  for  a  few  hours.  If 
he  did  not  like  leaving  P^lizabeth  longer, 
he  could  return  to  town  by  the  eveninir 
mail-train. 

I  may  pass  over  the  three  following 
days.  1  had  much  matter  for  grave  delib- 
eration, as  will  be  seen  presently.  How 
best  to  do  that  which  I  had  resolved  u^ion, 
was  the  subject  of  anxious  thought  with 
me  all  the  week.  Letters  of  condolence  to 
my  mother  poured  in.  Among  those  ad- 
dressed to  myself  was  one  from  Mrs.  Ham- 
leigh. The  fact  alone  was  pregant  with 
meaning.  She  wrote  effusively,  as  though 
nothing  had  ever  occurred  to  interrupt 
our  affectionate  relation  towards  each  oth- 
er. She  and  Evelyn  would  arrive  by  the 
first  train  on  Saturday  ;  it  was  impossible 


to  come  before,  on  account  of  their  mourn- 
ing, but  they  would  stay  with  dear  Lady 
Rachel  after  the  funeral  as  long  as  I 
wished.  I  could  not  help  smiling  a  little 
bitterly  as  I  read  my  cousin's  epistle,  and 
compared  it  mentally  with  the  last  I  had 
received  from  her,  and  with  her  words  and 
manner  to  me  on  my  visit  to  the  cot- 
tage. I  was  a  cast-away  then,  only  to  be 
tolerated  under  protest.  How  had  it  come 
to  pass  that  I  was  whitewashed  now  ? 
What  had  I  done  in  the  interval  to  redeem 
my  character  ?  What,  indeed  !  The  one 
ray  athwart  all  this  gloom  was  that  I  was 
to  see  Evelyn,  —  to  see  her  for  a  while 
here,  as  in  days  of  old,  without  let  or  hin- 
derance. 

Mr.  Francis  wrote  that  he  would  be  with 
me  in  time  for  the  funeral  on  Saturday  ; 
and,  if  I  wished  him  to  remain  till  Monday, 
he  could  do  so,  as  Elizabeth  was  out  of  all 
danger  now,  and  was  to  be  moved  to  Tor- 
quay for  change  of  air  next  week. 

Joe  Carter  brought  down  my  mourning, 
and  was  much  impressed  with  the  grandeur 
of  my  inheritance.  The  colonel  granted 
my  application  for  leave  until  the  end  of 
the  month,  and  longer  if  I  wished  it.  A 
few  manly  lines  from  Arthur  Tufton,  like 
the  warm  grasp  of  a  friendly  hand,  was 
the  only  other  noticeable  letter  I  received. 
Those  from  our  mighty  neighbors,  and 
from  my  mother's  family,  I  need  not  par- 
ticularize. Such  conventionalities  are  use- 
ful, I  believe ;  the  reading  of  them  is 
almost  a  mechanical  employment,  involving 
little  or  no  thought,  and  the  prescribed 
flattery  of  sorrow  has  a  soothing  effect  on 
some  natures.  My  mother  was  so  consti- 
tuted. She  could  not  believe  in  her  heart, 
I  think,  that  many  of  these  people  cared 
about  poor  Ray,  but  it  afforded  her  a  sat- 
isiiaction  that  they  should  pretend  they  did. 

I  saw  her  very  little  ;  once  or  twice  a  day 
I  went  to  her  boudoir,  and  I  begged  that 
whenever  she  wished  she  would  send  for 
me.  Occasionally  she  did  so,  about  some 
letter  or  matter  of  ceremonial  —  never  be- 
cause she  craved  for  the  sympathy  of  her 
only  remaining  child.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  Mr.  Putney's  sym]iathy  she 
really  cared  more  for.  He  had  known  Ray 
ever  since  he  was  born,  and  had  never 
wearied  of  proclaiming  her  elder  son's  tal- 
ents and  virtues  on  the  house-tops ;  he  had 
beslavered  her  with  flattery,  direct  and  in- 
direct, for  the  last  four-and-twenty  years, 
and  it  was  meat  and  drink  to  her.  It  was 
strange  how  a  clever  woman  could  listen  to 
his  drivelling  ;  but  use  is  second  nature, 
and  his  fulsome  laudations  of  poor  Ray  at 
this  moment  were  really  a  comfort  to  her. 

Our  intercourse,  on  the  other  hand,  do 
what  I  would,  could  not  but  be  constrained. 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


127 


I  was  most  anxious  to  avoid  toucliing  on 
the  future ;  that  topic  would  come  soon 
enou2;h,  and  very  fruitful  would  it  be  of 
bitterness,  I  well  knew.  Let  my  brother 
be  buried,  at  all  events,  before  any  discus- 
sion between  my  mother  and  me  arose. 
But  on  Friday  night  —  the  night  before  the 
funeral  —  after  I  had  explained  to  her  all 
the  arrangements  for  the  morrow,  she  said, 
looking  at  me  iu  her  calm  way,  — 

"  How  long  do  you  mean  the  Hamleiglis 
to  stav,  Osmund?  Of  course  it  rests  en- 
tirely  with  you  :  this  is  your  house  now, 
and  I  have  no  intention  of  retaining  the  au- 
thority here  which  dear  Ray  liked  to  leave 
in  my  hands." 

I  have  little  doubt  of  the  answer  my 
motlier  looked  for,  which  she  thought  I 
coulil  hardly  tail  to  return,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. It  was  cleverly  conceived,  too, 
to  make  the  Hamleighs'  visit  the  point  up- 
on which  my  first  decision  should  be  pro- 
nounced ;  but,  though  perplexed  for  a 
minute  how  to  reply,  I  disappointed  her  as 
gently  as  I  could. 

"  1  hope  they  will  remain  as  long  as  you 
wish  to  have  them,  —  for  thrc«  or  four 
months  if  you  like  it.  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  return  to  my  duty  on  Monday  week." 

There  was  a  pause ;  then  she  said,  in  a 
very  low  voice,  — 

"  I  suppose  you  do  not  mean  to  remain 
in  the  army  —  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  mother." 

"  I  am  sorry  lor  it."  Then  another  pause. 
"  With  your  taste  for  country  pursuits,  you 
would  find  enousjli  to  do  in  looking  after 
this  property." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  I  had  rather  not  enter 
upon  that  question  just  now.  To  return  to 
to-morrow,  I  wish  I  could  dissuade  you  from 
going  to  the  church.  It  will  be  a  most 
painful  trial  to  you,  I  am  sure,  in  evcrij 
way.'"  Here  my  eye  for  a  moment  met  hers. 
"  You  bear  up  wonderfully,  but  I  am  afraid 
of  your  physical  strength  giving  way  under 
the  strain  put  upon  it." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  —  I  shall  not 
disgrace  you.  I  have  had  streno-th  iriven 
me  to  meet  all  my  trials,  and  it  will  not 
fail  me  to-morrow.  If  more  are  in  store  for 
me,  Osmund,  I  trust  they  may  not  come 
through  you." 

She  spoke  these  words  in  a  low,  distinct 
voice,  and  without  another  syllable  she  rose 
and  left  me.     I  saw  iier  no  more  that  night. 

The  pompous  and  painful  ceremony  took 
place  at  one  o'clock  the  next  day.  1  have 
but  little  to  say  of  it.  The  park  was  crowd- 
ed with  carriages  for  two  hours  before  the 
procession  moved  fiom  the  house.  By  tlie 
carriage-road  it  was  a  (quarter  of  a  mile  to 
the  church.  So  close  as  we  were,  by  the 
path  through   the  shrubbery,  the  natural 


thing  would  have  been  to  have  walked  ;  but 
I  knew  my  mother  would  be  grievously  an- 
noyed if  I  even  suggested  this,  so  every  thin=f 
was  ordered  to  meet  her  wislies.  The  Ham- 
leighs, Col.  Levison  llicli,  Mr.  Francis,  and 
Mr.  Little  arrived  by  the  twelve  o'clock 
train.  I  handed  Evelyn  and  her  motlier 
from  the  carriage,  and  saw  no  more  of  them 
till  all  was  over.  They  went  to  Lady 
Rachel's  room,  and  I  had  to  receive  those 
who  were  come  to  pay  my  brother  the  last 
token  of  respect.  To  the  servants  and 
tenantry  every  thing  —  I  have  Sparsliott's 
word  for  it  —  was  considered  to  be  most 
satisfactory.  The  hearse  and  its  plumes, 
the  long  line  of  mourning  coaches,  the  mutes, 
the  largesse  of  scarfs  and  gloves,  the 
baked  funeral  meats,  the  immense  concourse 
of  the  county  "  quality,"  —  all  were  proper, 
affecting,  and  creditable  to  the  house  of 
Penruddocke.  Joe  Carter  declared  that 
"  it  would  gratify  the  gen'leman  as  is  gone, 
if  he  could  but  see  it."  My  mother  did  not 
belie  herself.  Her  white,  marble  face, 
slightly  bowed,  but  distinctly  seen  through 
her  crape  veil,  never  moved  dui'ing  the  cer- 
emony. Once,  and  once  only,  the  arm 
which  leant  on  mine  shook,  —  at  least,  I 
fancied  so.  It  was  when  we  approached  the 
family  vault.  I  felt  my  own  breath  come 
quick.  In  spite  of  the  solemnity  of  the 
present  moment,  I  could  not  but  recall  the 
hour  when  she  and  I  last  saw  tha{  door  open. 
I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground ;  I 
could  not  look  up ;  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
all  present  must  read  the  shameful  secret 
in  my  face.  My  mother,  however,  except 
for  that  slight  spasmodic  movement,  remain- 
ed the  whole  time  motionless  and  erect.  I 
heard  many  sobs  around  me  ;  tender  wo- 
men's hearts  were  wrung  as  they  thought  of 
the  poor  mother's  bereavement ;  she  alone 
retained  her  self-control.  Like  a  beautiful 
lily,  with  head  bent  beneath  the  storm,  yet 
not  broken,  she  stood  there,  the  wonder  and 
admiration  of  all  around. 

Then,  when  every  thing  was  over,  and 
we  came  out  of  the  dark,  mouldy  little 
church  into  the  sharp  air  of  the  January 
afternoon,  the  crowd  fell  back  to  let  us  pass, 
and  we  were  driven  swiftly  home ;  but 
there  was  as  great  confusion  among  the  car- 
riages in  the  narrow  road  as  though  the 
event  were  a  race,  or  an  archery-meeting. 
The  villagers  stood  gaping  round  the 
churchyard  gate,  and  with  coachmen  sijuab- 
bling  and  footmen  calling  for  their  masters' 
carriages,  it  was  a  scene  truly  befitting  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion.  Most  of  those 
who  had  followed  us  to  the  church  now  dis- 
persed ;  but  a  few  who  came  from  a  distance 
returned  to  the  house,  where  luncheon  was 
prepared.  My  Uncle  Levison  was  now  of 
great   service;  my  mind  was   too   full   of 


128 


PENPUDDOCKE. 


other  matter  to  be  able  to  talk  to  these  half- 
dozen  i;HMitK'iuen  ;  but  he  coiiversod,  in  that 
undertone  which  les  hienxeances  demanded, 
of  the  foxes,  coverts,  &c.,  as  they  hunj:; 
about  the  fireplace,  in  the  awkward  condi- 
tion of  men  who  scarcely  know  what  it  be- 
fits tliem  to  say.  They  have  come  here 
with  a  profession  of  grief,  but  that  is  over 
and  done  with  :  they  are  now  hungry,  and 
would  fain  talk  oj)enly  and  unconcernedly 
if  they  dared.  A  Levison  Rich  is  invalua- 
ble at  such  a  time. 

"  It  was  past  three  o'clock  when  tlie  last 
dog-cart  drove  off.  The  ladies  were  up 
stairs,  where  they  had  remained  since  their 
return  from  church.  I  was  alone  with  my 
uncle,  Mr.  Francis,  and  Little.  My  uncle 
looked  out  of  the  window,  and  began  a  low 
whistle,  then  suddenly  checked  iiimself. 

"  Shall  we  take  a  stroll,  Pen,  or  go 
through  the  stables  ?  Can't  remain  in  the 
house  all  day,  eh  ?  " 

"I  am  sorry.  Uncle  Levison,  but  I  must 
ask  you  for  your  presence,  and  that  of  Mr. 
Francis,  in  the  library.  I  have  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Little,  and  I  wish  you  both  to  be  pres- 
ent." 

"  Ray  left  no  will,  eh  ?  "  asked  my  uncle 
quickly ;  perhaps  the  hope  of  some  small 
legacy  shooting  through  his  mind. 

"  iSTo,  he  did  not ;  but  all  his  personality 
1  look  upon  as  belonginij  to  my  mother." 

"  Deuced  handsome  !  "  said  mv  uncle. 
"  What,  horses  and  all  ?  " 

1  opened  the  door,  without  further  reply, 
and  the  three  followed  me. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  This  estate,"  I  began,  when  we  had 
reached  the  library,  "  is  entailed  on  me, 
and  I  am  last  in  the  entail  —  is  it  not  so, 
Mr.  Little  V  " 

"  Certaiidy,  certainly,  Mr.  Penrud- 
docke." 

"  And  when  I  attain  my  majority,  on 
the  24th  of  June  next,  I  have  absolute 
control  over  it  —  may  do  what  I  like  with 
it.  V  There  is  no  doubt  or  question  about 
that  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  You  will  be  account- 
able to  no  one." 

"  My  reason  for  asking  is  this  :  I  wished 
to  be  quite  sure  of  my  position  and  power 
b'jfore  announcing  to  you  the  resolution  I 
have  taken.  On  the  '24lh  of  June,  I  shall 
hand  over  the  title-deeds  of  this  property, 
as  a  free  gilt,  to  my  cousin,  Miss  Elizabeth 
Penruddocke." 

'■  Good  God  !  are  you  mad  ?  What 
foolery  is  this  ?  "  said  my  uncle. 

"  My  reasons,  Mr.  Little,"  I  continued 


calmly,  "  for  taking  this  course  will  be  ob- 
vious to  you.  I  believe  Miss  Penruddocke 
to  be  the  rightful  owner  of  this  property. 
It  woukl  be  impossible  now  to  prove-  this 
legally,  I  am  aware.  Also  I  believe  the 
time  has  elapsed  after  which  a  property 
can  be  claimed  by  law;  but  the  obligation 
to  restore  it  is  no  less  binding  on  me.  Of 
course  I  am  powerless  to  act  at  present, 
but  I  have  called  you  together  here  to  bear 
witness  to  my  recorded  intention." 

"  Give  up  your  property  to  that  d — d  fel- 
low from  America  1  "  burst  out  my  uncle. 

"  lie  is  dead  — it  is  his  daughter." 

"  Well,  it's  all  the  same.  You  must  be 
gone  stark  mad,  Osmund  1  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thin'^  1 " 

Then  Mr.  Little,  who  never  spoke  with- 
out deliberation,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
said, — 

"  I  must  be  allowed  the  liberty,  as  the 
legal  adviser  of  your  family  for  many  years, 
Ml-.  Penruddocke,  to  counsel  you  that  such 
an  act  as  this  is  without  precedent  in  all 
my  experience.  You  are  aware  that  when 
the  late  Mr.  John  Penruddocke  came  over 
to  this  country  four  years  ago,  in  the  hopes 
of  establishing  his  claim,  it  utterly  broke 
down  ?  " 

"  I  am  aware  that  one  link  in  the  chain 
of  his  evidence  was  wanting." 

"  And  one  is  as  good  as  a  dozen,  my 
dear  sir.  He  hunted  up  all  the  proofs  he 
could  in  support  of  his  claim.  Mr.  Hum- 
phrey, I  am  sure,  left  no  stone  unturned  ; 
but  it  ended  in  their  abandoning  the  idea 
of  brino-inf  the  case  to  a  trial.  Wliv,  in 
the  tace  of  these  facts,  you  should  persist 
in  regarding  Miss  Penruddocke  as  the 
rightful  owner,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive." 

"  I  dare  say  you  are,  jNIr.  Little.  I  fully 
understand  your  making  this  remonstrance. 
As  an  old  legal  friend,  it  is  not  only  j  usti- 
fiable,  but  right.  But  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  at  once  that  no  arguments  can  move 
my  determination.  I  believe  my  cousin 
to  be  wrongfully  dispossessed  of  this  prop- 
erty ;  and,  believing  this,  I  could  never 
enjoy  a  moment's  piece  of  mind  if  I  re- 
tained it.  I  make  it  a  free  gitt  to  her.  I 
am  so  situated  that  I  can  do  so,  without  in- 
terfering with  any  one's  legal  rights.  Mv 
mother's  jointure,  settled  on  her  at  her 
marriage,  will,  of  course,  still  be  chargeable 
on  the  estate  —  the  change  of  hands  will 
not  affect  that ;  and  there  is  no  one  else  to 
be  considered  in  the  matter." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  cried  the  colonel,  "  I  should 
like  to  hear  what  your  mother  would  say. 
Well,  I'm  glad  there  are  only  we  three 
present,  Osmund.  I  wouldn't  have  it 
talked  of  for  the  world.  I'll  undertake  to 
say  you'll  think  better  of  it  betbre  next 
June  ;  and  in  the  mean  time,  gentlemen, 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


129 


we  had  better  agree  to  consider  this  com- 
munication as  if  it  had  not  been  made,  — 
to  promise  that  not  a  word  on  the  subject 
shall  pass  our  lips." 

"  On  the  contrary,  Uncle  Levison,  I 
asked  you  and  Mr.  Francis  in  here  that 
you  might  tell  my  mother  of  the  resolution 
i  have  taken  (I  had  rather  not  speak  to 
her  myself,  if  it  can  be  avoided)  ;  ]\Ir. 
Francis,  in  order  that  he  may  inform  Mr. 
Humphrey  Penruddocke  and  Elizabeth. 
If  I  die  to-morrow,  I  shall  have  discharged 
my  conscience  of  a  burden,  by  at  least 
making  my  intentions  clearly  known." 

"  Conscience  !  "  muttered  my  uncle.  "  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !  —  never  !  " 
Then,  aloud,  "  Mr.  Francis,  have  you 
nothing  to  say  ?  Surely  you  don't  encour- 
age this  high-flown  rubbish  ?  To  give  up 
a  fine  property  like  this  for  some  far- 
straiued  notion  or  other  —  it's  perfectly 
monstrous !  " 

'*  I  cannot  interfere  between  any  man 
and  his  conscience.  Col.  Rich,"  said 
Francis  slowly.  "  If  Osmund  believes  it 
to  be  right,  he  must  do  this  thing.  I  say 
nothing." 

If  my  uncle  had  not  been  much  irritated, 
he  was  too  well-bred  to  have  retorted,  as 
he  did,  with  a  sneer,  — 

"  I  forgot  you  were  living  with  those 
other  people." 

A  little  flush  came  into  dear  old  Fran- 
cis's cheek. 

"  My  living  with  Mr.  Humphrey  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  this,  believe 
me,  Col.  Rich.  Ask  your  nephew 
whether  the  question  of  this  property  has 
been  talked  of  between  us  for  years.  No 
influence  of  mine  has  been  at  work,  I 
assure  you." 

"  Nor  any  one  else's,"  I  struck  in 
quickly.  "  The  subject  has  never  passed 
my  li[)s  since  I  came  into  jx)ssession  ;  and, 
I  may  add,  it  is  one  I  have  never  discussed 
with  any  human  being.  I  formed  my  own 
unbiassed  opinion  long  ago,  when  there 
was  little  prospect  of  my  ever  being  called 
upon  to  assert  it  openly  ;  thereibre  I  was 
silent.  And  now,  Mr.  Little,  tell  me 
about  the  Lincolnshire  estate.  Is  it  part 
of  the  Penruddocke  property  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not;  if  you  mean  of  the  ori- 
ginal property.  It  came  into  the  family 
through  your  father's  mother.  It  produces 
about  eight  hundred  a  year." 

"That  estate  I  shall  retain,  then,  as 
Elizalu^th's  right  cannot  touch  it.  And 
now  I  think  I  liave  said  all  I  need  say." 

"  Stay  one  moment  I "  exclaimed  my 
uncle,  who  had  gone  to  the  fire,  and  was 
leaning  back  against  the  mantle-piece, 
standing  on  one  leg,  and  warming  his  soles 
alternately.     "  Before  we  separate,  let  me 


put  one  question  to  you.  Have  you  reflected 
that  you  may  want  to  marry,  Osmund,  who 
knows,  even  before  you  come  of  age  ?  It 
might  make  all  the  difference  in  your  chan- 
ces —  altered  prospects,  eh  ?  Why  be  in 
such  a  devil  of  a  hurry  to  announce  this  ? 
Time  enough  next  June.  Lots  may  hap- 
pen between  this  and  then." 

"  AVhenever  I  choose  a  wife.  Uncle  Levi- 
son, it  will  be  a  woman  who  will  not  be 
influenced  by  my  haying  hundreds  or  thou- 
sands a  year,"  I  replied  very  grandly.  "  As 
to  the  announcement  of  my  intention  to 
the  world  at  large,  you  and  the  rest  of  my 
family  can  do  as  you  please.  All  I 
desire  is  that  my  mother,  Humphrey,  and 
Elizabeth  should  be  apprised  of  it." 

I  left  the  room,  seized  a  hat  in  the  hall, 
and  slipped  out  by  a  back-door  into  the 
park.  The  deed  was  done,  and  in  such  a 
manner,  I  hoped,  as  to  prevent  all  discus- 
sions between  my  mother  and  myself. 
That  was  the  only  thing  I  dreaded. 

The  winter  afternoon  was  drawing  in. 
Already  the  blue  mists  in  the  hollows  were 
creeping  up  towards  the  house,  the  out- 
lines of  the  woods  were  blurred;  in  the 
thick  laurel  shrubbery  it  was  almost  night. 
I  wandered  on,  careless  of  which  way  ray 
footsteps  led  me,  a  prey  to  many  complex 
feelings,  dominant  over  which  was  a  sense 
of  joy  at  having  had  it  in  my  power  to 
atone  for  a  great  wrong  by  a  simple  act  of 
justice.  That  it  was  possible  to  do  this, 
and  yet  shield  my  mother,  was  another 
cause  for  thankfulness.  It  would  have  been 
a  cruel  alternative  had  I  been  forced  to 
choose  between  the  exposure  of  her  crime, 
and  submitting  to  be  a  party  to  the  fruits 
of  it.  Bereaved  of  her  favorite  son  as  she 
was,  I  felt  doubly  anxious  to  spare  her  as 
much  further  tribulation  as  might  be. 
Her  pride  would  suffer  keenly,  her  wrath 
would  be  greatly  kindled  against  me  — 
that  there  was  no  help  for;  but,  at  all 
events,  she  would  feel  that  her  own  person- 
al reputation  was  secure.  The  admiration 
and  esteem  of  the  world,  which  she  prized 
so  highly,  I  did  not  mean  to  rob  iier  of 
that  —  if,  indeed,  I  had  the  power  of  doing 
so.  How  much  or  how  little  I  knew  had 
been  a  constant  source  of  anxious  specula- 
tion to  her  during  the  last  four  years,  I 
have  little  doubt !  that  I  had  suspicions, 
at  all  events  strong  enough  to  drive  me 
from  my  home,  she  must  have  felt  very 
certain.  It  was  the  conviclrion  that  such 
was  my  mother's  state  of  vague  mistrust 
regarding  me,  which  gave  me  a  reasonable 
hope  that  she  would  shun  discussion  on  the 
point;  it  touched  upon  too  dangerous 
ground  to  be  approached  with  safety  by 
her. 

It  would  be  afTectation  to  pretend  that 


130 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


the  thought  of  giving  up  Beanmanoir,  just 
as  it  had  so  unexpectedly  fallen  into  niy 
hand;^,  did  not  cost  me  some  severe  pangs. 
I  had  never  loved  my  old  home  so  much, 
1  think,  as  dirring  this  last  week,  when  I 
had  been  nominally  its  lord  ;  and  now,  as 
I  wandered  on  in  the  twilight,  I  felt  like  a 
departed  shade  revisiting  the  scenes  of  his 
past  happiness.  How  joyous  my  childhood 
seemed  on  looking  back  to  it !  —  more  so, 
no  doubt,  than  it  really  was.  There  was 
the  spot  where  my  father  and  I  had  planted 
an  acorn,  now  shot  up  into  a  goodly  young 
oak  ;  down  there,  near  the  turze-bush,  1 
killed  my  first  rabbit,  and  this  was  the  old 
hawthorn  under  which  I  learnt  so  many  of 
my  lessons.  Every  foot  of  earth  was  en- 
deared to  me  by  some  recollection,  from 
which  time,  with  a  softening  hand,  had 
rubbed  all  the  hard  edges ;  but  sweet- 
est of  all  were  the  memories  of  early  love 
bound  up  with  the  home  of  my  childhood, 
which  was  now  mine  no  more.  And  even 
as  I  thought  of  them,  I  saw  a  girlish  figure 
flitting  in  the  twilight  before  me.  I  could 
not  be  mistaken  in  it  :  I  hurried  after  her 
—  it  was  Evelyn. 

She  looked  startled  at  seeing  me ;  her 
manner  was  very  grave,  but  sweet  and  gen- 
tle as  it  always  was.  She  wrapped  her 
black  shawl  closely  round  her. 

"  I  thought  you  were  busy  with  Mr. 
Little,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  over  ;  and  I  came  out  here  to 
get  rid  of  a  splitting  headache.  This  has 
been  an  awfully  melancholy  business, 
Evelyn;  and  yet,  —  strange,  isn't  it? — but 
for  poor  Ray's  death,  I  shouldn't  be  here 
now." 

She  misunderstood  me,  and  looked  dis- 
tressed. 

"  O  Osmund  1  surely  "  —  she  began,  and 
then  stopped  hesitatingly. 

"  You  didn't  fancy  I  was  thinking  of  the 
inheritance?  I  was  thinking  of  the  delight 
it  was  to  be  here  in  the  old  place,  once 
more  with  you,  —  not  to  meet,  as  we  did 
three  weeks  ago,  in  a  ball-room." 

"  Why,  then,  have  you  never  come  home 
all  this  time  V  Each  visit  we  paid  here,  I 
used  to  say  to  myself,  '  This  time  he  will 
come  '  —  init  you  never  came.  If  you  cared 
for  dear  Beaumanoir  so  very  much  "  — 

"  I  cared  for  it  very  much,  and  for  you 
still  more,  dearest ;  and  yet  I  couldn't  come. 
You  must  believe  me,  tor  I  can't  explain 
why." 

She  was  silent,  and  I  continued,  — 
"  Have  vou  still  some  laith  left  in  me, 
Evelyn?"' 

"  It  would  be  untrue  if  I  said  it  had  not 
been  shaken,"  she  replied  in  a  low  voice. 
"  You  were  such  a  hero  la  my  eyes,  as  a 
child ! " 


"  And  T  want  to  be  so  still,  my  darling, 
for  I  am  in  no  one  else's." 

"  So  you  shall  be,"  she  said  with  a  smile, 
'•'  now  that  you  are  come  home,  and  are 
going  to  be  a  good  boy  again." 

"  And  yet  I  have  never  changed  —  as 
regards  you,  at  all  events." 

"  Don't  say  that  —  it  hurts  me,"  she 
returned  quickly.  "  It  makes  it  seem  as 
if  you  did  not  care  much  about  me  in  the 
dear  old  times.  I  had  rather  think  that 
you  are  coming  back  again  to  what  you 
used  to  be,  before  you  knew  the  world." 

"  The  world  1  Shall  I  tell  you  some- 
thing ?  You  would  have  heard  nothing 
but  good  of  me,  if  I  had  done  the  worldly 
thing  my  mother  wanted,  —  married  a  girl 
for  her  money." 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  I  am  sure  she  never 
wished  that.  She  is  so  noble  —  poor  Lady 
Rachel !  You  do  her  injustice,  Osmund  1  " 
"  Do  I  ?  My  poor  mother  !  I  am  sure 
I  feel  sincerely  for  her  sorrow  now.  Ray, 
you  see,  was  every  thing  to  her,  and  I  am 
—  nothing !  " 

"  Ah  !  if  so,"  she  sighed,  "  whose  fault  is 
that  ?  " 

"  Not  mine  originally."  Then  I  added, 
rather  bitterly,  "I  fancy,  from  the  tone  of 
your  own  mother's  letter,  that  she  is  in- 
clined to  think  rather  better  of  me  now 
than  she  did  three  weeks  ago." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,  Osmund  ;  but  it 
is  very  wrong  to  imagine  that  the  change 
in  mamma  has  any  thing  to  do  with  —  with 
your  altered  jiosition.  You  are  come  home 
at  last,  and  are  reconciled  to  dear  Lady 
Rachel ;  and  mamma  says  that  this  awful 
event  must  produce  a  great  effect  on  you, 
she  is  sure." 

"  Well,  I  am  thankful  for  the  result,  at 
all  events;  but  I  should  be  a  humbug,  Evy, 
if  I  let  you  fancy  that  poor  Ray's  death  has 
made  any  great  change  in  me.  I  am  much 
as  I  was  this  day  week,  neither  better  nor 
worse.  I  never  wronged  my  brother.  I 
have  nothing  to  reproach  myself  witii." 

"  But  it  is  so  terrible,  so  terrible,"  she 
repeated  again,  in  her  soft,  pitiful  voice. 
"  Poor  Lady  Rachel !  I  do  so  feel  for  her." 
"  So  do  I  —  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
But  that  doesn't  change  my  character,  you 
see,  dear." 

"  You  will  be  kind  to  her,  and  remain 
with  her  now,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Mv  mother's  home  shall  be  with  me,  if 
she  likes  to  make  it  so  ;  but  that  I  doubt. 
She  never  cai'ed  for  me,  and  has,  unfortu- 
nately, been  too  ready  to  believe  all  manner 
of  evil  of  me.  Whatever  I  can  do  to  com- 
fort her,  however,  you  may  dej^end  on  it,  I 
shall." 

She  walked  on  in  silence.  Presently  she 
said,  with  a  little  hesitation,  — 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


131 


"  Is  it  rlcjlit  to  speak  so  of  Lady  llacliel, 
after  behaving  as  you  have  done,  dear  Os- 
mund? Remember  how  much  cruel  anxi- 
t      ety  you  have  cost  her." 

'"  I  am  tired  of  self-defence,"  I  said  an- 
grily. "  As  I  told  you  the  other  day,  my 
tongue  is  tied.  People  must  believe  what 
they  like.  It  all  depends  on  whether  they 
do  like  it." 

She  looked  with  a  saddened  expression 
into  my  face. 

'•  Are  you  one  of  those  who  like  to  believe 
evil  of  me  ?  "  I  said  more  gently. 

"  You  know  I  am  not.  Why  do  you 
ask  ?  " 

"  Because  you  seem  to  have  swallowed 
all  you  have  been  told." 

"  No."  .she  rejjlied,  and  her  voice  shook, 
"  not  all." 

"  You  believed  all  that  foolish  gossip 
about  me  at  Kendal  Castle?" 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Sjjcak,  Evy.  My  future  happiness 
depends  on  our  being  frank  with  each 
other." 

"  There  are  some  things,"  she  murmured, 
"which  one  must  be  blind,  as  well  as  deaf, 
not  to  understand.  But  now,  dear,  that 
you  are  come  home,  all  will  be  right  again. 
Mamma  herself  thinks  so." 

"  We  shall  see.  I  am  afraid  she  will 
change  her  mind.  Now,  tell  me,  how  did 
you  like  Lord  Tufton  ?  " 

"  Very  much  :  he  was  very  kind,  and  he 
spoke  so  affectionately  of  you." 

"  And  did  not  that  alter  your  mother's 
opinion  of  me  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  He  confessed  to  mamma  that  he  was 
uneasy  about  you." 

"  By  Heavens !  There  is  a  fatality  in 
tliis.  Arthur,  who  would  never  wittingly 
injure  me  !  And  what  did  he  say  to  you'? 
—  you  say  he  spoke  affectionately  of  me." 

''  Well,"  she  replied,  with  a  ^ad  little 
smile,  "  when  he  said  that  you  lived  like 
brothers,  and  yet  confessed  that  he  had 
never  heard  my  name  pass  your  lips,  I  felt 
hurt.  I  said  you  had  left  me  as  a  child, 
anil  I  suppose  you  sliU  thought  of  me  as 
such." 

"  You  told  him  tliaf  f  Well !  There  ts 
a  fatality  in  these  things.  I  wonder  you 
did  not  guess  the  true  reason,  Evy  —  that 
I  could  not  talk  of  my  love  even  to  my 
best  friend,  if  he  did  not  thoroughly  sym- 
pathize with  me.  lie  thinks  that  1  regard 
you  still  as  a  child,  then  !  " 

"  What  does  it  signifiy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Nothing  —  you  are  a  child,  I  am  glad 
to  see  still,  in  simplicity,  though  you  have 
lost  the  blind  confidence  you  once  liad  in  me.' 

"  Love  —  true  love  is  not  blind,  I  think, 
but  quick- sighted." 


"  Ah !  you  fancy  so."  I  seized  her  hands 
and  drew  her  towards  me.  "  Oh  1  my  own 
dai'ling,  what  thing  is  there  I  can  do  to 
make  you  believe  in  me  truly,  implicitly, 
again  ?  " 

The  sweet,  half-shrinking  face  was  lifted 
to  mine,  and  I  kissed  it  passionately.  Then 
it  was  buried  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  heard 
a  low  whisper,  — 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  You  know  too 
well.  Give  up  that  bad  friend,  —  that  for- 
eign lady." 

Then,  as  thoucrh  frijihtened  at  what  she 
had  said,  she  sprang  from  my  arms,  and 
shot  through  the  shrubbery  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

It  was  agreed  between  my  uncle  and 
Mr.  Little  to  say  nothing  to  my  mother 
upon  the  subject  of  my  communication 
until  the  following  day.  Let  a  night,  at 
least,  intervene  between  the  sorrow  of  bury- 
ing; one  son,  and  that  of  learnin<j  that  the 
other  was  bent  upon  abandoning  that  fair 
patrimony  which  had  been  the  pride  of  all 
her  married  life. 

Now  that  the  funeral  was  over,  indeed, 
she  did,  at  last,  in  some  measure,  give  way. 
She  had  borne  up  as  long  as  there  was  any 
thing  of  representation  to  be  gone  through  ; 
she  had  even  announced  her  intention  of 
joining  the  dinner-table  that  night ;  but 
when  the  hour  drew  near,  she  was  unequal 
to  this  fresh  exertion,  and  kej^jt  her  room. 
I  asked  if  she  wished  to  see  me,  but  she 
declined ;  Mrs.  Haraleigh  only  was  ad- 
mitted. Our  evening  was  a  dreary  one,  as 
may  be  imagined.  Very  little  was  said ; 
even  my  uncle's  easy,  empty  loquacity  was 
quelled  by  the  announcement  I  had  made 
to  him.  Mrs.  Hamleigh  was  the  only  one 
who  had  not  a  secret  weight  or  anxiety  at 
heart ;  and  she  thought  it  but  decorous  to 
maintain  a  mournful  silence. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  we  all  went 
to  church,  and  Mr.  Putney  improved  the 
occasion,  as  I  knew  he  would,  by  a  funeral 
oration  upon  my  brother.  It  was  fulsome  ; 
it  sinned  against  good  taste  in  every  way  ; 
but  he  gained  his  end  by  it.  My  mother 
sent  him  twenty-five  pounds,  "  as  a  slight 
recognition  of  his  valuable  services  during 
her  heavy  affliction." 

In  the  afternoon,  my  uncle  and  IMr.  Lit- 
tle asked  to  have  some  conversation  pri- 
vately with  my  mother.  The  rest  of  us 
went  out  walking.  Mrs.  Ilamluigh  fastened 
herself  upon  me  :  she  was  more  than  cor- 
dial, she  was  effusive.  For  some  time  she 
confined  herself  to  such  fragmentary  ejacu- 
lations as, — 


132 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  It  is  so  nice  having  you  here  again  ! 
So  like  old  times  !  Is  it  not,  mj'  darliii'T 
child  ?  How  often  wo  have  longed  for 
hiiu  !  —  have  we  not  ?  " 

''  Ah  !  you  longed  for  me  to  be  awai/. 
■when  I  came  down  to  the  cottage,"  said  I 
nitlilessly. 

"  To  the  cottage  1  Oh  !  but  you  were  a 
naughty,  naughty  boy,  then  !  We  will  not 
refer  to  that  time.  By  the  by,"  Evelyn 
and  Francis  were  a  few  paces  in  front  just 
then.  ■'  Lord  Tufton  spoke  so  7ilcel)/  of 
yon.  It  was  such  a  pleasure  !  You  are 
very  intimate,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  We  are,  —  very  intimate." 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  true  that  he  is  a  gam- 
bler ?  It  would  be  too  sad.  They  say  he 
is  half-ruined." 

"  Do  they  ?  Poor  Arthur !  That  is  so 
like  the  world's  good-nature." 

'•  Like  the  world's  good-nature,"  —  and 
she  wagged  her  head,  while  she  looked  in- 
quiringly in  my  face.  "  Then  it  is  not 
true?  — so  glad." 

•'  Well,  he  has  only  come  into  the  title 
about  three  months,  and  he  has  certainly 
not  touched  a  card  or  made  a  bet  during 
that  time,  —  in  fact,  he  had  given  up  play 
long  before,  so  his  present  Ibrtune  is  cer- 
tainly not  affected  by  that." 

'•  And  is  it  —  is  it  large  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not  large.  For  a  peer,  he  is 
decidedly  poor ;  but  then  he  has  everj' 
thing  else  in  the  world,  —  talent,  amiabil- 
ity, good  looks,  —  what  does  a  little  money, 
more  or  less,  signify  ?  " 

I  found  a  vicious  pleasure  in  watching 
my  cousin's  face  as  I  said  this. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  —  ah  1  yes,  what  does  it 
signify  V  as  your  sweet  mother  always  says. 
Principle  is  every  thing.  And  he  has  prin- 
ciple, —  orthodox,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  orthodoxy. 
He  is  a  right  good  fellow,  —  only  you 
mustn't  believe  all  he  tells  you  about  me. 
He  has  an  idea  that  I  am  a  soft-hearted 
spoon.     Now,  I  am  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  said  my  cousin,  with  her 
nervous  grin  ;  "  I  am  sure  if  he  saw  you 
here,  —  with  us,  so  domestic,  so  very  nice 
as  you  can  be.  Lord  Tufton  would  see  that, 
—  that  you  only  want  to  be  in  good  hand.'i, 
that  is  it,  in  good  hands.  You  have  turneil 
over  a  new  leafl,  —  yes,  a  new  leaf.  I  was 
savin?  so  to  your  dear  mother  this  very 
day."' 

"  Well,  the  old  leaf  was  a  good  deal 
dog's-eared  by  my  friends,  —  any  page  can 
be  dirtied  in  that  way." 

"  Ah !  I  fear  you  have  been  a  sad  boy, 
all  the  same,"  she  said  playfully  ;  and  as 
Evelyn  turned  just  then,  the  interesting 
conversation  dropped. 

It  was  du^k  when  we  reached  home,  and 


the  dog-cart  was  at  the  door,  to  take  Mr. 
Little  to  meet  our  only  Sundny  up-train. 
lie  was  in  the  hall,  and  drew  me  aside. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  colonel  and  I  have  told 
her  ladyship ;  but  I  hope,  I  do  really  hope, 
that  you  will  see  fit  to  alter"your  determi- 
nation before  the  time  comes  for  acting 
upon  it." 

'■  "What  did  my  mother  say,  Mr.  Little?  " 

"  Vei-y  little.  She  turned  as  pale  as 
death,  and  did  not  speak  for  some  time.  I 
never  saw  lier  ladyship  so  visibly  upset. 
She  saiil  at  last  that  she  could  not  believe 
it,  —  it  was  impossible  but  that  you  would 
be  brought  to  see  reason." 

"  Was  that  all  that  passed  ?  Did  she 
say  nothin:;  more  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Penruddocke,  —  yes,  she  did 
say  something  more.  She  asked  me  if 
there  was  no  legal  impediment  to  your 
committing  this  act  of  folly  ;  for,  excuse 
me,  such  I  must  call  it.  Your  friends 
would  be  justified  in  doing  all  they  could 
to  prevent  it,  for  the  sake  of  any  children 
you  may  have  hereafter,  if  it  were  possible. 
Unfortunately  it  is  not.  As  I  told  her 
ladyship,  you  are  your  own  master,  to  act 
as  you  please,  on  coming  of  age.  All  we 
must  hope  is  that  your  good  sense  will  pre- 
vent your  perpetrating  an  act  which  you 
will  assuredly  repent  all  the  rest  of  your 
days." 

Having  spoken  out  this  boldly,  the  old 
lawyer,  whom  I  respected  the  more  for  his 
freedom  of  speech,  took  his  departure. 

The  colonel  was  closeted  with  my  mother 
for  nearly  half  an  hour  lonq;er.  Then  came 
a  raessa'j;e,  desiring  Mr.  Francis's  presence 
in  her  ladyship's  boudoir.  When  he  re- 
joined me  in  the  Ubrary  some  time  later,  I 
was  standing  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  He 
came  up,  and  laid  both  hands  on  my  shoul- 
ders. 

"  My  dear  Osmund,  I  have  had  a  very 
painful  interview  with  Lady  Rachel." 

"  I  was  afraid  it  mi'^ht  be  so,  Mr.  Francis. 
I  hope  "  —  and  here  I  (topped.  I  knew  that 
my  mother  had  never  really  liked  the  man, 
whom  a  respect  for  his  great  attainments 
alone  had  induced  her  to  retain  with  her 
sons  so  long. 

"  Lady  Rachel  accuses  me  of  influencing 
your  decision  in  this  matter.  She  seems  to 
think,  that,  in  becoming  Elizabeth's  tutor,  I 
have  '  gone  over  to  the  enemy,'  as  she  ex- 
pi-esse(l  it ;  and  that,  but  for  me,  this  idea 
would  never  have  entered  your  mind.  Now, 
my  dear  boy,  you  know  how  carefully  I  have 
abstained  from  ever  speaking  on  this  subject. 
Ever  since  your  announcement  yesterday,  I 
have  felt  it  better  to  be  silent.  I  met  your 
mother's  suspicions,  therefore,  with  a  per- 
fectly clear  conscience ;  and  I  should  not 
tell  you  of  the  unjust  accusation  now,  but 


s. 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


133 


that  I  want  to  say  something  to  you,  upon 
this  subjt'C't,  lor  the  first  and  hist  time.*' 
He  paust;d  lor  a  moment,  not  as  awaiting 
a  rejoinder  li'om  me,  but  as  if  in  considera- 
tion liow  he  should  proceed.  "I  hardl)' 
know  if  I  am  jnstitied  in  saying  what  1  am 
about  to  say.  Nothing  but  my  strong  affec- 
tion for  )'ou,  and  lor  Elizabeth'  too,  would 
induce  me  to  do  so.  You  are  resolved  to 
dispossess  yourself  in  lier  favor.  Why 
should  you  not  marry  lier?" 

Again  he  paused ;  but  I  was  too  much 
startled  to  rep\y  at  once,  and  he  went 
on,  — 

"  You  know  enough  to  be  aware  that  this 
was  her  father's  most  earnest  wish,  while  as 
yet  there  was  no  prospect  of  your  inheriting 
Beauiiianoir.  Wliat  vou  do  not  know,  I 
think,  is  tlie  influcsnce  you  possess  over 
Elizabeth's  heart." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  Mr.  Francis.  It's 
nothing  but  a  child's  fancy,  I  assure  you. 
•  .  .  Say  no  more  about  it  —  it  distresses 
me.     It  could  never  be." 

"  And  wliy  not  V  You  have  always  taken 
the  warmest  interest  in  Elizabeth  ;  sucli  an 
interest  as  would  ripen  into  love  if  you  en- 
couraged it.  She  is  no  common  character. 
If  she  marries  a  man  to  whom  she  is  devoted, 
she  will  make  a  very  rare  wife  ;  if  she  does 
not  —  however,  that  is  useless  speculation. 
Though  scarcely  more  than  a  child  in  years, 
she  has  the  strong  heart  of  a  woman.  1 
know  —  even,  perhaps,  better  than  she 
knows  herself —  around  what  it  has  been 
growing  closer  and  closer,  attaching  itself 
more  and  more  every  month  that  I  have 
lived  with,  and  watched  her.  Tlie  peculiar 
circumstances  of  the  case  must  be  my  plea 
for  saying  this,  Osmund.  I  see  two  young 
lives  that  might  make  each  other's  mutual 
happiuess  likeJy  to  drift  asunder  —  there- 
fore I  speak." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Francis,  for  once  your 
wisdom  is  at  fault.  Elizabeth  is  not  a  bit 
suited  to  me.  Her  originality  charms  me 
in  a  cousin.  It  would  fidget  me  in  a  wife." 
'■  She  is  still  a  little  wild,  I  grant,  but 
there  is  no  such  tamer  as  love.  Think  of 
what  she  was  a  year  ago  :  she  is  marvel- 
lously softened  ;  and  it  is,  in  reality,  more 
your  work  than  mine,  Osmund.  You 
mi'^ht  nudie  wlnit  you  pleased  of  her. 
She  is  as  superior  to  any  other  girl  of 
her  age  I  ever  met "  — 

''  Ah  !  there  I  can't  agree  with  you.  But 
of  course  it  is  a  matter  of  oi)inion." 

"  I  do  not  sj)eak  of  beauty,  of  course.  If 
you  saw  her  mind,  as  I  see  it,  in  hourly  in- 
tercourse, jou  would  feel  as  I  do.  She  is 
above  all  the  little  pettinesses  of  her  sex  ; 
she  has  a  large,  nobU;  soul,  and  I  believe, 
Vf'lien  she  once  obtained  an  iulhicnce  over 
you,  that  she  would  keep  it.     It  would  be 


an  elevating  one,  whereas  that  of  many 
women  is  often  the  reverse;  and  with  your 
temperament,  I  hold  it  of  paramount  im- 
portance into  whose  hands  you  fall.  Then, 
my  boy,  remember  the  diiiicullies  such  a 
marriage  would  smooth  away.  IIow  natur- 
ally' it  would  reconcile  all  interests  1  " 

"  Except  my  own.  No,  my  dear  Mr. 
Francis,  Elizabeth  will  have  her  property, 
and  1  shall  have  my  liberty.  I  won't  de- 
prive her  of  one,  and  she  shall  not  deprive 
me  of  the  other." 

"  One  word  more,  and  I  have  done. 
Promise  me,  that,  between  this  and  June, 
you  will  see  more  ef  her.  When  this 
property  is  actually  given  up  to  her,  many 
considerations  will  interfere  to  prevent  your 
coming  forward  as  her  suitor.  However 
much  }ou  grow  to  be  attached  to  her  then, 
the  appearance  of  a  desire  to  regain  your 
estate  would  be  very  distasteful  to  you. 
Now  the  case  is  different ;  nothing  could 
be  more  natural  than  such  a  marriage." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  I  said  at  last,  after 
musing  for  a  moment  or  two,  "  I  hope  to 
Heaven  you  are  mistaken  in  what  you  sup- 
pose to  be  Elizabeth's  feeling  towards  me ; 
but,  if  it  be  so,  I  am  doubly  bound  to  refuse 
what  you  ask.  She  and  1  had  better  meet 
as  little  as  possible,  for  I  shall  never  marry 
her.  Why  shouldu't  I  tell  you  the  truth  ? 
I  shall  never  marry  any  one  but  Evelyn 
Hanileigh." 

lie  looked  me  steadily  in  the  face,  and 
sighed. 

"  From  all  I  heard,  I  thought  you  had 
long  since  forgotten  that  boyish  fancy." 

"  Never.  1  suppose,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  vou  have  heard  lies  about  me.  Thev 
are  lies.  You  will  believe  me  V  I  have 
never  loved  anv  one  but  Evelvn  ;  and,  in 
spite  of  her  mother,  I  mean  to  marry  her." 

"  Then  1  have  no  more  to  say." 

I  saw  he  was  grievously  disappointed. 
There  was  a  silence  of  some  minutes. 
Presently  he  said, — 

"  Flas  it  occurred  to  you  that  Elizabeth 
may  refuse  to  accejit,  as  a  gift,  what  her 
father  would  have  proved,  if  he  could,  was 
her  right  Y  " 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  on  that  point. 
Of  coiu'se  her  right  can  never  now  be 
prooed."  (Here  our  <"  •  -  met.)  "There 
is  a  secret  which  wi!  .iways  be  safe  with 
you  :  it  must  never  be  unearthed.  But  I 
wish  you  to  tell  Elizabeth  and  Humphrey 
this — that,  though  her  claim  cannot  legal- 
ly be  established,  I  am  acting  upon  the  ce/"- 
tain  conciction  that  this  property  is  justly 
hers.  It  is  no  act  of  generosity.  1  could 
not  retain  it  an  hour,  knowing  as  1  do  that 
1  have  no  right  to  it." 

"  Be  it  so.  And  henceforward,  my  boy, 
I  suppose  that  I  shall  see  very  Iitt',e  of  you  't 


134 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


That  is  sad  news  for  me.  Though  you  have 
given  me  more  anxiety  and  trouble,"  he 
added,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  than  any  other 
human  being  ever  did.  I  always  luved  you 
as  my  own  son.  Ah!  how  I  wish —  But 
what  is  the  use  of  wishing  ?  God  knows 
what  is  best  for  us.  We  are  the  blind  in- 
struments of  his  will.  When  we  try  to 
work  our  own,  we  are  generally  punished 
in  one  way  or  another." 

The  servants  entered  with  lamps  :  the 
first  dinner-bell  rang,  and  I  had  no  more 
conversation  with  Francis,  He  left  13eau- 
manoir  by  the  first  train  the  Ibllowing 
morning. 

My  uncle  had  renounced  his  intention 
of  returning  to  London  on  INIonihiy,  owing, 
I  have  no  doubt,  to  my  mother's  instance ; 
ibr  1  had  not  the  courage  to  ask  him, 
knowing  how  bored  he  must  be  ;  but,  with 
all  his  worldliness  and  fbllv,  he  had  a  kind 
nature,  and,  when  put  to  it,  would  sacri- 
fice his  own  comfort  tor  others  more  readi- 
ly than  most  people  would  have  given  him 
credit  for.  What  my  mother  thought  that 
she  gained  by  his  presence  I  scarcely 
know  :  she  had  by  so  tar  the  better  head 
of  the  two,  that  she  was  not  likely  to  take 
counsel  of  her  bi-other ;  but  the  cleverest 
women  at  times  will  lean,  or  ailect  to  lean, 
on  the  weakest  men.  For  myself,  I  was 
sincerely  glad  be  should  stay  :  he  broke, 
in  some  measure,  the  iciness  of  our  narrow 
circle.  Mrs.  Ilamleigh  had  frozen  again 
below  zero.  Evelyn  looked  sorrowful; 
but  I  had  no  opportunity  of  another  tele-a- 
tete,  as  I  ardently  desired. 

It  is  strange,  in  these  days  of  independ- 
ence, to  find  a  child  so  completely  under 
subjection  to  a  parent  as  she  was  to  her 
mother;  but  to  Evelyn,  I  need  hardly  say, 
Mrs.  Hamleigh  appeared  in  a  very  difi'er- 
ent  light  from  what  I  have  represented 
her  in  these  pages.  Her  mother's  devo- 
tion to  her  had  always  been  true  and 
entire.  Mrs.  Hamleigh  would  have  walked 
barefoot  all  her  days,  if,  by  so  doing,  she 
could  have  secured  for  her  daughter  those 
things  she  esteemed  of  the  highest  worth 
this  side  the  grave.  And  Evelyn,  believ- 
ing her  mother's  character  to  be  of  the 
rarest  excellence,  bowed  down  with  al- 
most implicit  deference  to  her  mandates, 
if  not  to  her  opinions.  Though  she  might 
not  think  in  all  things  as  her  mother 
thouc^ht,  the  habit  of  her  young  life  made 
it  impossible  for  her  to  act  in  opposition 
to  her  mother's  wishes.  This  is  what  I 
could  not  understand  at  the  time.  Eve- 
lyn's blind  obedience  chafed  me.  Why 
should  she  submit  to  be  treated  still  as  a 
child  ? 

My  mother  appeared  down  stairs  on 
Wednesday,  and   met   me  without  visible 


discomposure.  Our  intercourse  was  of 
the  '■  yea  and  nay  "  character,  limited  to 
connnonplaces.  She  clearly  avoided  an 
interview  alone  with  me.  My  days  were 
fully  occupied,  for  I  regarded  myself  as 
holding  the  property  in  trust  for  Elizabeth, 
and  I  resolved  that  it  should  not  suffer 
during  my  stewardship.  My  uncle  and  I 
walked  througli  the  plantations,  which 
had  been  neglected  since  my  father's 
death,  and  needed  thinning;  we  discussed 
the  re-fencing  and  draining  of  certain 
portions  of  the  estate  :  we  looked  over  the 
live  stock  of  the  farm  with  the  baililF,  and 
valued  it. 

On  Saturday,  however,  my  happy,  mer- 
curial uncle  left  us,  and  I  wandered  about 
alone.  The  ladies  sat  together  in  my 
mother's  boudoir :  it  was  so  arranged,  no 
doubt,  to  obviate  Evelyn's  being  left  alone 
with  me,  even  for  five  minutes.  On  Sun- 
day, however,  on  their  return  from  after- 
noon church,  she  entered  the  library  to 
fetch  a  book.  As  I  was  always  out  till 
long  after  dark,  she  little  thought  to  find 
me  there  :  indeed,  until  she  hail  reached 
the  centre  of  the  room,  she  did  not  per- 
ceive me ;  for  I  was  in  the  embrasure  of 
a  window,  reading  "  Bell's  Life  "  by  the 
fading  rays  of  daylight. 

"  At  last !  "  I  exclaiuied.  "  I  have  been 
all  the  week  waiting  for  this  opportunity. 
Don't  run  away,  my  pet." 

"  Mamma  will  be  very  angry  if  I  re- 
main.    I  must  not,  Osmund." 

"  Rather  hard  in  my  own  house.  Look 
here,  you  niu!<t  listen  to  me ;  you  really 
must,"  and  I  drew  her  into  the  window. 
"  Do  you  know  why  I  am  suddenly  tabooed 
again  ?  " 

"  Ah  1 "  she  sighed,  "  why  have  you 
spoilt  every  thing  ?  Will  you  not  give  up 
this  wild  idea,  even  for  my  sake  V  " 

"  My  own  pet,  you  don't  know  what  you 
ask ;  you  could  not,  if  you  did.  It  would 
be  renouncing  truth  and  honor  on  my  part. 
I  can't  tell  you,  or  any  one  else,  w/nj  it  is 
a  two-fuld  duty  with  me  to  give  up  Beau- 
manoir ;  but  it  is  so.  There  is  no  help 
for  it." 

"  You  will  never  get  Lady  Rachel  to  see 
it  in  that  light,"  replied  Evelyn,  shaking 
her  head  sadly. 

'•  No ;  but  when  you  are  my  wife,  tjou 
will  see  it  in  that  light :  there  shall  be  no 
secrets  from  you  then."  My  arm  w:is 
round  her  waist.  I  bent  down,  so  that  I 
could  look  into  those  sweet  brown  eyes, 
•and  continued  rapidly,  "  The  time  is 
come,  darling,  when  you  must  decide  be- 
tween your  mother  and  me.  Will  you 
pledge  yourself  to  marry  me,  sooner  or 
later,  in  spite  of  all  opposition  ?  " 

"I   love  you,"  she  said,  in   a  very  low 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


135 


voice;  ")'ou  knc(w  that,  Osmund  —  but  I 
will  never  marry  in  opposition  to  mamma." 

"  Wliat  does  this  opposition  mean  ? 
Listen  to  me  for  a  moment.  Slie  treats 
me  lilve  a  dog  as  long  as  I  am  poor ;  I  be- 
come rich,  and  for  a  few  days  she  is  all 
smiles.  She  would  have  liked  you  to 
marry  Ray,  but,  as  long  as  you  become 
mistress  of  Beauraanoir,  it  doesn't  matter 
whether  it  is  he  or  I.  And  now  she  hears 
that  I  am  going  to  give  up  the  property,  I 
am  scouted  once  more.  Is  this  any  thing 
but  the  most  miserable  worldliness  ?  " 

She  gently  disengaged  herself,  and 
looked  up  resolutely  into  my  fdce. 

"  If  you  speak  in  that  way  of  mamma, 
I  cannot  listen  to  you.  She  has  devoted 
her  whole  lite  to  me  :  she  is  cpiite  incapa- 
ble of  such  base  feelings.  She  hoped  you 
were  reformed,  and  now  she  and  Lady 
Rachel  say  this  step  you  mean  to  take 
shows  your  tastes  are  unchanged.  First, 
you  could  hardly  be  got  to  leave  the  ranks ; 
and  now  you  only  associate  with  the  worst 
people  in  London.  You  shrink  from  the 
responsibilities  of  a  large  property,  and 
prefer  a  life  of  dissipation  :  that  is  what 
they  say,  and  that  is  why  mamma  is  so 
changed  about  you." 

"  And  you  believe  this  stuff?  " 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"  No,  I  will  not  believe  it.  I  think  they 
are  both  mistaken ;  but  that  does  not 
make  mamma's  motives  base,  as  you  say. 
You  will  explain  nothing,  and  it  seems 
impossible  to  understand  your  conduct, 
after  the  law  has  so  clearly  given  the  case 
in  your  favor." 

"  What  says  Tennyson  ?  '  Trust  me  all 
in  all,  or  trust  me  not  at^all.'  Some  day 
you  shall  know  every  thing.  Do  you  re- 
member your  last  words  to  me  the  other 
evening?  " 

"  I  do,"  she  murmured,  looking  down 
and  coloring. 

"  ^Vell,  you  must  trust  me  in  that  too. 
You  must  trust  me  when  I  tell  you  that  a 
better  woman  than  Madame  d'Arnheim 
doesn't  exist,  and  that  nothing  can  be  more 
false  than  the  aspersions  against  her." 

She.  was  silent. 

"  If  you  knew  what  her  counsel  and 
sympathy  have  been  to  me,  ever  since  I 
came  to  London,  you  wouldn't  wish  to  part 
me  ii-oni  so  valuable  a  iiiend.  And  yet. 
Evelyn,  if  you  exact  this  sacrifice,  1  will 
make  it,  —  on  one  condition." 

She  still  said  nothing  ;  and  her  fingers, 
almost  unconsciously,  played  with  the 
locket  that  hung  upon  my  wuteh-cliain.  I 
oj)ened  it,  and  showed  her  her  own  lock  of 
hair. 

"  That  has  never  left  me  since  the  hour 
you  cut  it  oil'.     Promise,  Evelyn,  that  you 


will  be  my  wife,  and  nobody  else's,  and, 
hard  as  I  shall  feel  it,  I  will  then  promise 
you  to  break  ofl"  all  intercourse  with  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim.  But  I  will  do  this  for 
no  one  but  my  affianced  wife." 

When  she  looked  up,  I  saw  why  she  had 
remained  so  long  silent :  the  tears,  which 
had  been  gathering  in  her  eyes,  were  now 
raining  down  her  cheeks. 

"  What  am  I  to  say  ?  —  what  can  I  do  ? 
God  knows  I  would  not  separate  you  from 
any  true  friend  !  And,  besides,  what  can  I 
promise  ?  It  would  kill  poor  mamma,  if  I 
were  to  marry  against  her  wishes  !  " 

"  Will  you  promise  never  to  marry  be- 
cause of  her  wishes  ?  —  that,  as  long  as  I 
am  true  to  vou,  you  will  remain  true  to 
me  ?  " 

"I  will,"  she  whispered;  and  I  sealed 
her  promise  with  a  kiss. 

"  Pressure  will  soon  be  brought  to  bear 
on  you,  my  darling.  You  will  have  need  of 
all  your  powers  of  resistance.  I  foresee 
that  now  your  mother  will  want  you  to  be 
Lady  Tufton." 

She  started.  The  words  were  scarcely 
out  of  my  mouth  when  the  door  opened 
quickly,  and  Mrs.  Hamleigh  appeared. 

"■  Evelyn,"  she  cried,  in  a  sharper  tone 
than  I  had  ever  heard  her  use  towards  her 
daughter,  "  what  are  you  doing  here,  my 
dear  ?  Sunday  afternoon  is  no  fit  time  for 
idle  gossip." 

"  We  were  not  indulging  in  idle  gossip, 
I  assure  you,  Mks.  Hamleigh."  said  1,  with 
a  smile  ;  "  but  it  seems  destined  that  you 
shall  always  misunderstand  me." 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

TniXGS  continued  very  much  in  the 
same  way  for  two  days. 

On  Wednesday  morning  I  saw  a  letter  di- 
rected to  Mrs.  Haraleigh  on  the  breaklast- 
table,  and  recognized  Arthur's  hand.  A 
couple  of  hours  later  my  mother  sent  lor 
me.  AVith  what  object  ?  I  asked  myself, 
as  I  very  reluctantly  obeyed  the  summons. 

She  was  alone,  and  seated  in  her  custom- 
ary chair  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  with  her 
back  to  the  window.  She  pointed  to  a 
ber(jere  opposite. 

'•  Sit  down,  Osmund.  I  have  not  trusted 
myself  to  see  you  alone  yet,  since  I  heard 
of  your  intentions.  But  it  is  necessary 
that  I  should  do  so  now.  Do  not  be  afraid  : 
I  am  not  going  to  appeal  to  you.  I  know 
how  useless  any  supplications  of  mine 
would  be.  It  is  for  the  sake  of  others  that 
I  have  consented  to  speak  to  you." 

She  paused,  as  if  expecting  me  to  reply  ; 
but  I  was  too  much  puzzled  by  this  begin- 


136 


PENRUDUOCKE. 


ning:,  to  fiiul  any  thino;  to  say ;  so  there  I 
sat,  looking  at  her,  and  at  last  she  contin- 
ued, — 

'•  In  your  letter  to  me  some  weeks  ago, 
there  was  a  passa;jje  referring  to  Evelyn." 

"  There  was,  —  I  remember." 

"  IVrliaps  it  meant  nothing ;  bnt  Mrs. 
Ilamleigh  is  under  the  impression,  from 
language  she  believes  you  have  held,  and 
letters  of  yours  to  Evelyn,"  — 

"  Which  she  intercepted." 

"  That  you  really  are  in  love  with  your 
cousin.     Is  this  so  ?  " 

'■  As  I  told  you  in  my  letter,  I  shall 
never  marry  any  one  but  Evelyn." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  still  a  capacity  for 
a  pure  and  honest  attachment  left.  But 
to  the  point.  A  few  days  since,  the  idea 
of  t^uch  a  marriage  would  have  been  mad- 
ness,—  madness  on  both  sides  ;  now,  alas  !  " 
(and  that  long-drawn  sigh  came  from  her 
very  heart.  I  know),  — "now,  alas!  the 
case  is  dillerent.  If,  as  you  assert,  you 
have  really  changed  your  mode  of  life  "  — 

"  f  '^'^o  y<Jur  pardon.  I  have  asserted 
nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  If  you  are  as  attached  to  Evelyn  as  you 
would  have  her  believe  "  —  she  pursued, 
regardless  of  the  interruption  — "  her 
mother  authorizes  me  to  say,  that  an 
entia-jcement  between  vou  is  not  altogether 
impossible." 

I  began  to  see  a  glimmer  of  light. 

'•  Let  me  understand  you,  mother.  Mrs. 
Hamleigh  consents  to  Evelyn's  marrying 
me  as  a  poor  man." 

"  No  : "  !-he  looked  me  steadily  in  the 
face.  "  She  consents  to  her  marrying  you 
if  you  retain  Beaumanoir,  —  not  other- 
wise." 

"  I  thought  so." 

"  And  tins,  Osmund,  is  notwithstanding 
a  more  advantageous  oSer,  in  many  re- 
spects, —  one  which  would  have  given 
Evelyn  a  higher  jiosition  in  the  world  — 
which  she  received  this  morning  "  — 

"  I  understand.  She  is  to  give  up  Tuf- 
ton's  coronet,  and  four  thousand  a  year, 
for  Beaumanoir  with  fifteen.  Isn't  that 
about  it  V  " 

■'  If  you  choose  to  put  it  in  that  coarse 
way,  you  can.  Evelyn  has  known  you  all 
her  lili->,  and  likes  you,  and  her  mother  has 
no  olijection  to  the  marriage  ;  but  she  can- 
not let  her  child  marry  a  pauper.  It  en- 
tirely rests  with  you." 

"  That  is  vour  ultimatum,  mother  ?  " 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Hamleigh's." 

"  It  comes  to  the  same  thins:.  You  hold 
out  the  only  bribe  which  you  think  has  a 
chance  with  me.  And  both  of  you  talk  as 
if  Evelyn  were  to  be  disposed  of  just  as 
her  mother  likes.  After  doing  every  thing 
to  make  her  believe  that  I  was  a  monster 


of  vice  (I  was  to  be  avoided  as  if  I  had 
the  plague),  —  suddenly  you  tell  her  she 
may  marry  me.  How  does  Mrs.  Hamleigh 
know  she  would  consent  ?  " 

My  mother  fell  into  the  trap,  and  made 
a  false  move.  ' 

"  I  believe  there  is  little  doubt  that  she 
would  consent  to  an  en2;agement  with  vou, 

—  a  provisional  engagement,  I  mean." 
"Oh!    you  think  ^  so  ••'      And  Tufton  ? 

Would  she  be  equally  amenable  as  regards 
him  ? 

"  Her  mother  would  find  some  diffi- 
culty at  first,  possibly  ;  but  if  Evelyn  saw 
that    a    marriage  with  you  was    hopeless, 

—  if  you  made  it  impossible, —  I  believe 
she  would  ultimately  yield." 

"  You  are  mistaken.  She  will  never 
maiTy  Lord  Tufton,  or  any  one  but  me. 
She  is  very  pliant,  —  too  much  so  I  think  ; 
but  not  quite  to  the  point  you  imagine. 
Every  means,  fair  and  foul,  has  been  tried 
to  divide  us,  —  and  with  what  efieet  ?  She 
loves  me  still,  as  you  yourself  have  just 
acknowledged,  and  she  will  never  give  nie 
up  for  any  man  on  earth." 

"  She  has  been  brought  up  to  respect 
parental  authority,'  was  the  reply,  given 
with  a  reproachful  emphasis  on  the  last 
words.  "  She  will  never  fly  in  her  moth- 
er's tace,  —  that  you  may  be  sure  of.  But 
why  discuss  this  ?  If  you  are  really  in 
love,  if  this  is  any  thing  more  than  one  of 
your  idle  flirtations,  you  cannot  hesitate, 
of  course,  to  sacrifice  your  own  selfish  in- 
cliiiations,  and  submit  to  Mrs.  Hamleigh's 
terms." 

"  My  reply  is  very  short.  I  am  really 
in  love,  and  I  refuse  Mrs.  Hamleigh's 
terms." 

j\Iy  mother  leant  back  in  her  chair,  and 
her  face  became  a  shade  paler. 

"  Then  there  is  no  hope  for  you.  I  half 
expected  as  much.  You  are  bent  on  your 
own  destruction,  and  that  of  your  family. 
Your  obstinacy  is  so  great  that  you  will  not 
listen  to  reason,  even  for  Evelyn's  sake  !  " 

" '  Listening  to  reason,'  in  this  case, 
means  acting  dishonestly." 

I  saw  my  mother  wince  :  her  eyes  avoided 
mine.     I  rose. 

"  Do  not  force  me  to  speak  more  plainly, 
mother.  Believe  me,  this  is  a  subject  best 
avoided  between  you  and  me.  Nothing 
can  change  my  determination." 

"  I  have  done,"  she  began,  in  a  voice 
which,  though  she  struggled  to  maintain 
her  composure,  betrayed  how  deeply  Aie 
was  agitated,  as  she  went  on  :  "  I  did  not 
send  for  you  to  plead,  but  to  place  your 
position  as  regards  Evelyn  clearly  before 
}ou.  I  shall  say  no  more.  Your  course 
will  be  a  downward  one ,  but  I  shall  have 
the  consolation  of  knowing  that  I  did  my 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


137 


duty  in  waraing  you.  Henceforward  you 
must  go  your  own  way.  The  day  may 
conic  when  you  will  repent  of  your  conduct 
towards  nie  —  and  at  a  time,  too,  when  I 
am  1)0 wed  down  by  sorrow." 

"  I  am  grieved  to  add  to  it  in  any  way, 
mother ;  but,  remember,  you  obliged  me 
to  speak.  I  feel  most  heartily  for  you,  and 
if  there  is  any  thing  I  can  do,  except  this 
one  thing —  to  add  to  your  comfort  "  — 

"  Comfort !  "  she  interrupted,  with  a  bit- 
ter inflection  of  voice.  "  No !  you  will 
never  be  any  thing  but  a  disgrace  and  a 
constant  humiliation  to  rac." 

"  I  hope  not,"  I  returned  quietly.  "In 
spite  of  i\Irs.  Hamleigh,  mother,  I  mean  to 
win  Evelyn  by  and  by." 

"  That  you  will  never  do.  You  will 
never  meet,  if  Mrs.  Hamleigh  can  help  it. 
They  will  leave  Beaumanoir  this  very 
afternoon,  and  Lord  Tufton  is  to  be  asked 
to  the  cottage  next  week." 

"  Very  good.  Let  Arthur  try  his  luck. 
I'm  not  afraid.  But  it's  a  pity  they  should 
leave  to-day  on  my  account.  Mrs.  Ham- 
leigh's  presence  is  a  comfort  to  you,  which 
mine,  unhappily,  can  never  be,  you  say.  I 
have  done  all  that  is  necessary  here,  and 
may  as  well  go  up  to  town  to-night." 

"  As  you  please ;  "  and,  as  if  she  could 
not  trust  herself  to  say  another  word,  she 
passed  into  her  bedroom,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  If  she  abandoned  her- 
self there  to  the  anguish  of  her  soul,  it  was 
unwitnessed  by  mortal  eye. 

When  I  met  Mrs.  Hamleigh  and  Evelyn 
at  luncheon,  they  were  evidently  cognizant 
of  my  approaching  departure.  Evelyn's 
eyes  were  very  red:  she  kept  them  tixed 
upon  her  plate  the  whole  time.  Mrs. 
Hamleigh  grinned  nervously,  as  she  said,  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  return  soon,  Osmund, 
to  keep  your  poor  angel-mother  company. 
So  lonely  !  so  sad  1  and  we  must  leave  her 
next  week,  —  I'm  so  sorry  !  " 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  as  often,  and  for 
as  loner,  as  you  like,  until  next  June." 

"Next  June! — ah,  yes,  June!  Dear, 
dear  1  How  sad  !  you  are  very  kind  —  but 
oh  !  how  sad  it  is  I  J\ly  child,  you  had 
better  get  on  your  bonnet.  There  is  the 
carriage  comimx  round  to  the  door.  We 
are  going  into  W to  do  some  commis- 
sions for  dear  Lady  Rachel." 

Before  their  return  I  should  be  gone. 
As  the  poor  child  gave  me  her  cold,  trem- 
bling hand,  I  slipped  a  morsel  of  paper  into 
it.     This  is  what  I  had  written  :  — 

"  Dearest,  you  will  be  told  that  I  have 
given  yau  up.  You  will  know  whether  to 
believe  that  or  not.  You  were  oilered  me 
at  the  price  of  my  honor.  I  have  declared 
that   \  would   win  you  without  that  sacri- 


fice. Courage  !  Faith  !  Patience  !  With 
these  one  can  overcome  every  obstacle  in 
this  world, 

"  Yours  devotedly  till  death, 

"  O.  P." 

I  left  Beaumanoir  at  four  o'clock.  My 
mother  declined  to  see  me  again,  pleading 
fati'zue  as  her  excuse. 

When  I  entered  the  club  that  night,  I 
was  greeted  by  many  with  warm  congrat- 
ulations upon  my  "  luck  "  I 


CHAPTER  XLVH. 

The  history  of  the  next  two  months 
may  be  compressed  into  a  lew  pages. 

The  house  la  Chej'ne  Walk  was  empty. 
I  heard  weekly,  howevei,  ."••'^m  Francis  at 
Torquay.  The  amendment  in  Elizabeth's 
health  was  steady,  but  the  absence  of  ■ 
terest  in  all  outward  things  continued.  It 
appeared  impossible  to  rouse  her.  When 
she  heard  of  my  intentions  with  regard  to 
her,  she  received  the  intelligence  in  si- 
lence, until  Cousin  Humphrey's  exultation 
caused  her  to  say,  — 

"  If  it  had  come  before  dad's  death  — 
yes.  But  what's  the  good  of  it  to  me  now  ? 
Osmund  had  better  keep  the  estate." 

Then  had  Francis  replied  that  I  would 
never  do  that,  being  convinced  beyond  the 
possibility  of  doubt  that  it  was  rightly  hers. 
"No  act  of  renunciation  on  your  part 
would  be  accepted  by  him." 

"  Very  well,"  she  had  replied  listlessly  ; 
and  so,  for  the  present,  the  matter  dropped. 
My  old  tutor  reported  faithfully  to  me  all 
that  ])assed,  then  and  later,  on  the  subject. 
Humphrey's  unqualified  satisfaction  found 
expression  in  what  he  would  himself  have 
styled  a  very  "  handsome  "  letter  to  me.  It 
really  seemed  as  though  the  realization  of 
his  cherished  idea  had  gone  far  to  console 
him  for  John's  death.  I  was  thankful  that 
the  old  gentleman's  acknowledgments  were 
made  upon  paper,  and  not  in  person. 
From  first  to  last,  the  subject  was  odious 
to  me  :  all  reference  to  it  hurt  me  like  a 
sharp  ])liysical  pain. 

About  ten  days  after  my  return  to  town, 
Arthur  appeared  —  more  depressed  than  I 
had  seen  him  for  months.  lie  had  ])assed 
a  couple  of  nights  at  INIrs.  Ilamleigh's  cot- 
tage, on  his  "  way  to  London,"  he  said  ; 
and  I  needed  to  be  told  no  more.  A  week 
later  he  announced  to  me  that  he  had  ar- 
ransed  to  go  to  Italy  with  a  friend,  and 
>liould  not  be  back  till  the  end  of  May  or 
June.  There  is  no  denying  it,  his  absence 
at  this  moment  was  a  relief  to  me.  Had 
he  been  minded  to  unbosom  himself  with 


138 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


rocjard  to  his  love  and  rojoction,  it  would 
have  been  inexpressibly  painful.  I  must 
have  spoken;  and  my  speakinjj  just  now 
would  liave  been  doubly  diflieult.  By  the 
time  we  met  a<2;ain,  I  trusted  that  the  edLje 
of  his  disappointment  might  be  blunted. 
And  yet  (so  little  can  we  foresee  what 
■worke'th  for  our  woe  or  weal)  my  faithful 
friend's  departure  proved  an  unfortunate 
cireuiustanee  lor  me.  We  should  all  of  us 
have  been  spared  much  misery,  I  believe, 
had  he  remained  near  me  just  then. 

But  shall  I  call  it  "  Fate,"  or  shall  I  say 
it  was  a  curious  coincidence,  which  caused 
all  those  I  knew  best  to  be  absent  from 
London  at  this  moment  ? 

Madame  d'Arnheim  I  have  purposely 
deferred  naming  until  now,  though  I  had 
received  two  letters  from  her  at  Beauma- 
noir,  followed  by  several  since  I  came  to 
London.  Her  position,  poor  woman,  was 
becoming  almost  iiitoleraijle,  and  she  no 
longer  sought  to  hide  it.  D'Arnheim  had 
insisted  on  her  moving  to  Brighton,  where 
Mrs.  Hartman  AVild  was  settled  until  Eas- 
ter. He  could  hardly  venture  to  reside 
there,  leaving  his  wile  alone  in  London  ; 
and  his  duties  at  the  embassy  were  so 
slight,  that,  by  running  up  two  or  three 
times  a  week,  he  transacted  all  the  busi- 
ness that  was  required.  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim, thrown  into  daily  contact  (as  she 
never  need  have  been  in  London)  with  a 
woman  against  whom  she  nourished  such  a 
just  resentment,  could  no  longer  contain 
herself. 

"  My  cup  of  bitterness  is  full,"  she  wrote. 
"  It  will  not  hold  another  drop.  I  feel  so 
utterly  friendless  here,  and  so  worse  than 
useless  to  my  husband,  that  I  seriously 
contemplate  returning  to  Germany  for 
some  months.  The  grand-duchess  urges 
me  to  ailopt  this  course.  She  even  fimcies 
that  Carl  will  miss  me  when  I  am  gone, 
and  wish  me  to  come  back  to  him.  Alas  ! 
I  know  better.  The  question  then  arises, 
how  long  those  whom  God  has  joined 
should  remain  with  each  other,  when  not 
only  is  love  dead,  but  repulsion  and  treach- 
ery are  inseparable  from  the  continuance 
of  the  hollow  compact  ?  " 

It  was  a  point  in  ethics  I  was  not  pre- 
pared to  decide ;  but  that  she  should  go  to 
her  own  country  and  people  for  a  while, 
as  a  tenative  measure,  did  seem  to  me  the 
best  course,  perhaps,  the  outraged  wife 
could  pursue.  Keenly  sensitive  as'  she 
was,  it  was  manifestly  impossible  that 
things  should  go  on  as  they  had  been  doing 
of  late.  His  neglect  she  had  been  long 
accustomed  to ;  his  infidelities  she  must 
long  have  suspected  ;  but  since  the  disclo- 
sure made  that  fatal  morning,  at  Kendal 
Castle,   ia  the  billiard-room,   D'Arnheim 


had  shown  a  shameless  disregard  of  his 
wile's  i'eelings  —  nay,  of  common  decency; 
and  I  knew  her  too  well  to  believe  that  she 
would  submit  to  such  treatment  very  long. 

I  abstained,  however,  from  signifying 
my  a])])roval  of  my  poor  friend's  scheme, 
for  this  reason  :  I  was  disgusted  at  what 
seemed  my  own  baseness  in  feeling  relieved 
by  the  prospect  of  h(!r  departure  at  this 
moment.  It  would  cut  the  knot  of  a  di- 
lemma, the  unloosing  of  which  by  my  own 
hand  would  cause  me  great  pain.  It  is 
true,  Evelyn  had  not  accepted  my  offered 
promise  of  breaking  with  IMadame  d'Arn- 
heim :  yet  no  one  but  a  fool  could  doubt 
that  the-  continuance  of  my  intimate  rela- 
tions with  her  would  give  rise  to  a  tissue 
of  calumnies  which  would  be  poured  into 
Evelyn's  ear.  How  to  act  in  this  matter 
had  been  a  source  of  much  trouble  to  me  ; 
and  here  was  the  solution  of  the  difhculty. 
Yet  not  the  less  did  I  feel  angry  with  my- 
self for  the  sense  of  relief — as  though  it 
were  disloyal  to  my  friendship,  which  Avas 
warm  as  ever.  In  writing  to  her,  there- 
fore, I  passed  as  lightly  as  possible  over 
the  subject  of  her  leaving  England  for  a 
while. 

Matters  stood  thus  with  me,  when,  to- 
wards the  end  of  March,  I  received  a  note 
from  Lady  Castle.  She  had  just  arrived 
in  London. 

"  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,"  she 
wrote,  *'  that  I  should  see  you  without 
delay.  If  you  cannot  call  to-morrow  at 
dusk,  name  your  own  hour,  but  do  manage 
to  come,  somehow  —  there's  a  dear  kind 
creature." 

I  had  been  expecting  this  summons ; 
and  ray  resolve,  recorded  some  chapters 
back,  was  unchanged.  I  Avould  not  fre- 
quent her  house  ;  I  would  give  the  world 
no  handle  for  coupling  my  name  again 
with  her's  ;  but  if  I  could  help  her,  by  coun- 
sel or  otherwise,  I  would  do  so.  1  would 
not  go  back  from  my  word. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  evening  I  was  in 
Belgrave  Square.  I  was  shown  at  once 
into  Lady  Castle's  boudoir, — that  third 
apartment  which  opened  from  the  two 
drawing-rooms,  and  wdiich,  in  aspect  and 
temperature,  was  something  between  a 
trinket-box  and  a  forcing-bed.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  tea-roses  and 
lilies  of  the  valley,  with  which  the  Sevres 
jdrdbiieres  were  filled.  Quilted  satin  walls 
and  curtains,  white  lace  round  the  chairs 
and  table-covers,  jewelled  i-osaries,  silver 
filigree  ornaments,  miniatures  of  aristo- 
cratic old  dames  in  powder,  and  modern 
photographs  swinging  from  little  gilt  gib- 
bets on  the  writing-table  —  how  character- 
istic every  thing  was  of  the  graceful, 
luxurious   owner  I      The   presence   of   all 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


139 


tliat  could  captivate  the  senses  ;  the  ab- 
sence of  all  that  could  occupy  and  elevate 
the  miud  ;  for,  except  a  novel  of  Faideau's 
■which  I  took  up  while  waiting  for  her, 
there  Avas  not  a  book  in  the  room. 

She  entered,  dressed  in  a  sort  of  loose 
Cashmere  robe  ;  and,  even  in  the  twili<iht, 
I  could  see  how  ill  she  looked.  The  ser- 
vants followed  with  tea ;  and,  as  long  as 
they  were  in  the  room,  she  talked  in  an 
iudifFerent  strain. 

"  I  am  just  come  in  from  driving,  and 
was  changing  my  gown.  How  cold  it  is 
for  the  time  of  year !  You've  heard  of 
Sarah  Tenby's  marriage,  I  suppose,  to  that 
goose  George  Ashridge  ?  It  began  at 
Kendal,  you  know.  They  start  with  only 
nine  hundred  a  year.  Well,  I  hope  they'll 
be  very  fond  of  each  other,  —  that's  all  I 
can  say  "  with  a  sii^h  ;  and  here  the  door 
being  closed,  she  changed  her  tone.  "  It 
is  too  good  df  you  to  come  to  me  at  once  ; 
but  I  knew  you  would.  Oh,  you  can't 
tell  what  I  have  gone  through  since  I  saw 
you  !  Things  have  been  goino;  on  from 
bad  to  worse,  till  I  am  at  my  wit's  end. 
God  knows  what  is  to  become  of  me !  " 
And  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  What  has  the  brute  been  doing  fresh  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Had  the  effrontery  to  appear  at  Cas- 
tleton,  and  actually  showed  me  my  own  let- 
ters in  an  iron  casket,  swearing  that  he 
would  take  them  to  my  husband  there  and 
then  —  that  he  had  lost  every  shilling,  and 
was  desperate  —  and  that  he  would  sacri- 
fice reputation,  every  thing,  sooner  than 
starve.  I  dare  say  it  was  an  idle  threat : 
he  would  not  kill  his  goose  with  the  golden 
eggs  so  quickly."  And  she  laughed  hy- 
sterically. '-But  I  was  paralyzed  —  liter- 
ally paralyzed —  with  terror.  I  gave  him 
a  diamond  bracelet  wortli  three  hundred 
pounds  ;  and  now,  though  that  was  not  two 
months  ago,  I  am  beset  with  applications 
from  him  again.  Life  is  really  not  worth 
having,  at  this  price.  I  can  neither  eat 
nor  sleep  —  this  dreadful  nightmare  is  per- 
petually hanging  over  me." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  it,  as  I  told  you 
before,  but  to  send  some  man  to  deal  with 
him." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  all  very  well ;  but  rolio  ? 
I  have  not  a  single  man-relation  ;  and  men 
of  the  world  are  far  too  cautious  to  mix 
themselves  up  in  a  disagreeable  busi- 
ness." 

"  Then  I  renew  my  ofler.  I  won't  see 
any  woman  —  I  ilon't  care  who  ^he  is  — 
bullied  by  a  scoundrel,  without  del'ending 
her." 

"  Oh,  no,  no  I  It  would  be  unpardon- 
able to  drag  a  boy  like  you  into  this  scrape 
on  my  account.     No,  I  will  not  do  that." 


"  As  you  won't  tell  your  husband,"  I 
said  bluntly,  "  what  else  can  you  do  V  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  sofa-cushion, 
and  groaned. 

"  Look  here,"  I  said  at  last,  "  I  am  only 
offering  to  do  for  you  wdiat  I  shoulrl  do  for 
any  woman  I  saw  being  ill-treated  in  the 
street.  Every  man  would  do  the  same. 
This  brute,  like  all  bullies,  is  a  coward ;  and 
I  have  very  little  doubt  that  he'll  give  in  at 
once,  when  he  finds  he  has  a  man  instead 
of  a  woman  to  deal  with.  You  Avant  your 
letters  back  ?     Is  that  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured,  without  raising 
her  head  from  the  cushion,  "that  is  all." 

"  How  many  are  there  ?  " 

"  Only  four.  In  every  thing  else  I  ever 
wrote  to  him  I  was  most  cautious  :  they 
might  be  shown  to  the  whole  world." 

"  Are  yau  sure  that  these  are  contained 
in  the  casket  you  saw  V  " 

"  I  know  he  has  always  kept  them  there 
hitherto." 

"  And  have  you  any  idea  where  he  keeps 
the  casket  itself?  " 

"  In  an  old-fashioned  escritoire  in  the 
corner  of  the  room,  the  key  of  which  he 
generally  carries  in  his  pocket." 

"  How  does  the  casket  (jpen  ?  It  is  as 
well  to  know,  in  case  of  accidents.  And 
do  you  give  me  leave  to  look  at  the  letters, 
so  far  as  to  verify  your  writing  V  A  rascal 
like  this  may  substitute  blank  paper." 

"  The  casket  opens  by  a  spring  on  the 
right-hand  corner  underneath.  Yes,  look 
at  the  letters  —  but  oh  !  how  can  you  ever 
(ret  hold  of  them  ?  He  will  never  irive 
them  uji,  I  feel  certain,  without  being  paid 
some  immense  sum." 

"  Leave  that  to  me.  I  have  got  my  idea. 
Where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  Close  to  you,  in  Davis  Street,  No.  —  : 
he  has  the  drawing-room  floor,  but  he  is 
out  of  town  until  Saturday.  He  writes  to 
me  that  he  shall  call  here  on  Sunday  — 
and  what  on  earth  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"Refuse  to  see  him.  I'll  undertake  that 
you  sha'n't  be  bothered  by  him  again." 

"  Oh  !  how  can  I  ever  thank  you  enough, 
if  you  only  get  those  letters  back?  And 
yet  —  oh  1  I  feel  it  is  wrong  to  let  you  run 
into  danger  on  my  account !  " 

"  Danger  1  —  what  danger  do  you  ai)pr(>- 
hend?  I  promise  not  to  fight  a  duel  wiili 
such  a  blackguard,  if  that  is  what  you 
mean." 

"  You  don't  know  what  Cesare's  passion 
is  when  it  is  roused.  Ah !  no,  no  :  you 
had  better  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
Leave  me  to  my  fate." 

And  once  more  Lady  Castle  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  convulsively. 
I  rose. 

"Impossible    now!      I    knew    the   era- 


140 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


biissy  was  delicate  and  difTicult,  but  you  say 
it  is  dangerou;^.  You  put  uie  ou  my  met- 
tle. I  eouldu't  go  back  now,  you  see. 
(Jood-by.  I  hope  to  bring  you  the  casket, 
with  your  letters,  on  Monday  evening." 

]  have  said  enough  of  this  scene.  Over 
its  conclusion  I  will  not  linger.  Her  tears, 
Ler  terrors,  her  gratitude,  her  supplications 
that  I  would  avoid  needlessly  irritating  the 
Italian,  —  all  this  would  be  neilher  jjleas- 
ant  nor  profitable  to  detail  in  lull.  It 
was  nearly  eight  o'clock  before  I  left  the 
Louse. 

Header,  gentle  or  ungentle,  one  word  at 
the  end  of  this  chapter.  You  are  probably 
thinking  what  a  vain  young  fool  I  was, — 
that,  while  striving  to  emulate  the  virtues 
of  a  paladin  of  old,  I  was,  in  truth,  a  quix- 
otic youth,  who  had  conceived  altogether 
a  wrong-headed  view  of  his  duty  to  his 
neighbor  and  his  neighbor's  wife.  "  Que, 
diable,  allait-il  faire  dans  cette  galere  V  " 
I  hear  some  one  exclaim.  Y'^ou  are  quite 
right.  I  beg  to  assure  you  I  do  not  regard 
my  own  conduct  as  admirable ;  anil,  if  I 
rarely  interrupt  this  narrative  to  deplore 
past  folly,  it  is  because  retribution  is  more 
sharjjly  pointed  than  any  moral  retro- 
spect. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

I  PONDERED  a  good  deal,  the  day  follow- 
ing, over  what  my  plan  of  action  should  be. 
I  believed,  as  I  had  told  Lady  Castle,  that, 
if  taken  unawares,  the  Italian  could  be 
frightened  into  concession  ;  if  not,  all  means 
of  obtakiing  my  end  were  fair.  Scruples 
in  dealing  with  an  unscrupulous  scoundrel 
would  be  certainly  out  of  place. 

I  took  Joe  Carter  in  some  measure  into 
my  confidence.  I  made  him  understand 
that  I  was  engaged  in  a  delicate  matter, 
which  required  that  I  should  obtain  certain 
in!brmation  touchin'j;  a  foreijrn  count,  resi- 
dent  hard  by,  in  Davis  Street. 

"  I  want  you  to  find  out,  first,  when  he  is 
expected  back,  —  at  what  hour  to-morrow  ; 
next,  whether  he  receives  many  visitors, 
and  whether  he  has  a  man-servant,  or  any 
friend  lo  Iging  in  the  same  house.  Y'^ou  must 
learn  all  this,  Joe,  without  appearing  to 
pump." 

"  Humph !  I  don't  see  how  that's  to  be 
done." 

"  Well,  you  take  a  note,  and  wait  for  an 
answer.  Of  course  you  don't  know  he  is 
out  of  town.  You  can't  leave  the  note,  and 
begin  by  inquiring  when  he  is  sure  to  be 
back.  That  is  a  good  opening.  You  may 
drop  a  hint  that  there  is  a  lady  iu  the  case, 
which  is  true." 


I  said  this,  because,  if  the  inquiries  were 
repeated  to  Benevento,  it  would  throw  him 
off  the  scent.  The  jealousy  and  suspicions 
of  some  iiiir  one  were  roused  ;  his  wretched 
victim  was  the  last  who  would  send  to  learn 
particulars  of  his  mode  of  life. 

"  1  knowed  as  a  woman  was  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it,"  muttered  Joe,  as  he  left  the 
room. 

My  confidence  in  his  ability  for  this  sort 
of  embassy,  however,  was  justified  by  the 
information  he  brought  me  that  evening. 
The  landlady,  who  had  opened  the  door  to 
him,  had  rusponded  to  the  pressure  put  on 
her  most  satisfactorily.  The  count  woidd 
not  be  back  till  late  that  night ;  he  had  his 
latch-key,  and  would  let  liimself  in.  There 
was  one  other  lodger  in  the  house,  —  an  old 
gentleman  in  the  "  parlor ;  "  she  herself,  a 
widow  with  five  children,  occupied  the  bed- 
room lloor,  and  garret.  She  kept  two 
maids,  who  did  all  her  lodgers  required. 
The  count  had  no  man-servant,  nor  was 
there  any  other  man  in  the  house. 

I  walked  down  Davis  Street,  and  recon- 
noitred the  small  shabby  tenement.  A 
dirty  green  door,  with  a  dirtier  card  in  the 
fan-light  over  it,  whereon  w^is  written 
"  Lod2;in2:s  for  Sinirle  Gentlemen  ;  "  two 
grimy  "parlor"  windows,  chastely  veiled 
from  within  by  horse-hair  blinds  ;  three  long 
narrow  drawing-room  windows  above,  each 
opening  on  to  a  separate  little  bow  of  bal- 
cony, just  large  enough  to  hold  a  pot  of 
blackened  cypresses. 

That  night  I  said  to  Joe,  — 

"  This  count  whom  I  am  going  to  call  on 
to-morrow  is  a  rascal,  Joe.  Hanging  is  too 
good  for  him.  He  has  something  in  his 
possession  which  I  mean  to  make  him  give 
up  before  I  leave  his  room  ;  if  not  by  fair 
means,  why,  then,  by  force.  I  don't  expect 
much  difliculty ;  but  there's  no  saying,  and 
I  mustn't  trust  to  chance.  If  he  shows 
fight,  why,  he  is  as  strong,  or  stronger  than 
I  am.  There's  no  such  thing  as  fair  play 
in  dealing  with  a  ruffian.  I  may  want  your 
help,  Joe.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

''  Hm  !  I'd  better  go  in,  instead  o'  you  : 
that's  the  shortest  way." 

"  No,  no  —  that  would  never  do.  Why, 
it  would  look  as  if  1  was  afraid  !  I  must 
give  the  fellow  a  chance  of  yielding  into 
my  own  hands  what  I  want  to  get  from  him. 
If  he  resists,  —  well,  I  shall  have  to  pro- 
ceed to  extremities.  You  will  be  posted 
in  the  street,  opposite  the  windows.  If  I 
see  that  he  is  getting  '  nasty,'  I  shall  walk 
to  the  window.  You'll  then  come  over, 
ring  the  bell,  and,  without  asking  any  ques- 
tions, walk  straight  up  into  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  Shall  I  have  at  him  at  once  ?  "  asks 
Joe. 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


141 


"  No,"  I  replied,  smilinGj.  "  I  dare  say  the 
sight  of  you'll  be  enough." 

"  With  a  number  of  contingencies  in 
view  (which  I  will  not  stop  to  enunierate), 
I  resolved  to  call  on  the  Italian  at  a  very 
early  hour.  It  was  the  1st  of  April.  How 
well  I  remember,  as  I  walked  down  IMoimt 
Street,  soon  after  ten  o'clock,  wondering 
whether  I  should  be  made  a  "  fool  "  of  in 
the  interview  I  was  about  to  seek  !  It  was 
a  lovely  morning,  —  a  foretaste  of  IMay  — 
and  even  the  London  streets  were  redolent 
of  spring.  As  I  neared  the  house,  I  ob- 
served that  the  centre  window  of  the  vhree 
on  the  drawing-room  floor  stood  wide  open. 
It  was  what  is  termed  a  French  Avindow, 
and,  from  the  opposite  pavement,  I  could 
see  the  white  cloth  of  a  breakfast-table.  I 
crossed  over,  and  rang  the  bell.  Joe,  fol- 
lowing at  a  discreet  distance,  remained  on 
the  other  side  of  the  way. 

To  the  maid-of-all-work  who  opened  the 
door  I  said,  — 

"  Count  Benevento  is  at  home,  I  know. 
You  need  not  announce  me,  —  I  can  find 
my  own  way." 

She  looked  surprised,  but  offered  no  re- 
sistance. I  passed  up  stairs.  For  form's 
sake,  I  knocked  at  the  door.  I  did  not 
want  to  hear  if  there  was  a  reply ;  I  enter- 
ed, and  found  —  no  one.  But  a  rich  melo- 
dious voice,  singing  with  that  peculiar 
accent  which  is  rarely  counterfeited, 
"  Quando  la  sera  e  placida,"  from  the  ad- 
joining room,  the  door  into  which  was  ajar, 
told  me  that  my  bird  was  not  far  off.  He 
had  done  breakfast  as  the  table  showed, 
and  was,  perhaps,  finishing  his  toilet.  I 
gave  a  quick  glance  round.  By  Jove  1  — 
what  luck  !  There  in  the  corner,  between 
fireplace  and  window,  stood  the  bureau, 
open,  and  in  one  of  its  pigeon-holes,  among 
a  mass  of  papers,  I  caught  sight  of  a  small 
iron  casket,  which  must  be  what  I  sought. 
The  desk  of  the  bureau  was  covered  :  let- 
ters, studs,  loose  gold,  a  couple  of  dice,  an 
open  betting-book.  A  chair  in  front,  and 
the  half-burnt,  still  smoking  cigar  on  the 
edge  of  the  desk,  showed  how  lately  the 
owner  had  been  there.  My  eyes  seized 
these  details  in  a  few  seconds.  The  noise 
of  the  door  shutting  brought  the  Italian 
i'rom  his  bedroom.  He  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old, glaring  at  me  for  a  few  moments  in 
dumb  astonishment. 

He  wore  loose  silk  dressing-trousers,  and 
a  jacket.  His  shirt,  not  over-clean,  was 
open,  which  showed  a  hirsute  chest.  He 
was  as  yet  unshorn,  and  looked  his  charac- 
ter,—  a  splendidly  handsome  little  rudlun, 
wlio  would  have  been  more  in  place  upon 
the  Abbruzzi,  with  a  carbine  over  his 
shoulder,  than  in  a  London  lodging.  I  be- 
gan at  once  :  — 


"  You  wonder  what  brings  me  here, 
Count  Benevento  ?  The  explanation  of 
my  object  will  not  detain  you  long." 

He  moved  forward  a  few  steps ;  so  did  I, 
but  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  breakfast- 
table,  and  conset|uently  nearer  to  the  bu- 
reau. He  pointed  to  a  chair,  —  I  remained 
standing. 

"Proceed,  sir:  I  am  all  attention." 

"  You  have  been  received  in  this  country 
as  a  gentleman.  Count  Benevento ;  and, 
whatever  oj^inion  some  of  us  may  have 
formed  of  you,  you  have  managed  hitherto 
to  retain  your  position.  In  our  encounter 
last  3'ear  you  came  off  victorious,  —  you  will 
not  do  so  next  time.  I  know  that  of  you 
now  which  would  kick  you  out  of  every 
club,  every  drawing-room  in  London,  if  I 
choose  to  publish  it." 

He  raised  his  eye-brows,  and  just  showed 
his  white  teeth  for  an  instant ;  but  his  eye 
betrayed  nothing,  —  it  never  left  my  face. 
I  continued,  — 

"  You  have  been  guilty  of  the  most  das- 
tardly act  any  man  —  I  do  not  say  gentle- 
man, —  can  commit.  You  have  for  months 
been  intimidating  an  unhappy  lady,  whom 
you  have  pretended  to  love,  by  threats  of 
betraying  her  to  her  own  husband.  There 
isn't  a  sweep  in  the  streets,  I  believe,  who 
would  be  guilty  of  such  vileness  !  " 

"  Oh  1 "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  bitter  sneer, 
"  you  are  sent  by  Lady  Castle,  of  course. 
You  have  taken  my  leavings,  and  I  wish 
you  joy  of  them  ;  but  if  you  think  1  am  go- 
ing, on  that  account,  to  let  you  interfere  in 
private  arrangements  between  her  and  me, 
you  are  mistaken.  I  will  crush  you,  or  any 
man  that  meddles  with  me,  as  I  would  crusU 
a  fly  !  "  _ 

He  raised  his  clinched  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  brought  it  noiselessly  down  upon 
the  table.  The  last  words  were  uttered  in  a 
hissing  whisper.  I  replied  in  a  loud  voice,  — 

"  Bombast  will  avail  you  nothing.  I 
care  for  neither  your  threats  nor  your  in- 
sinuations. I  am  here  to  demand  Lady 
Castle's  letters ;  and,  if  I  don't  get  them,  yon 
Avill  be  posted  as  a  blackguard,  with  whom 
no  gentleman  can  associate,  in  every  club 
to  which  you  have  been  admitted." 

"  At  the  expense  of  your  mistress's  rep- 
utation," he  said  ;  and  a  diabolical  smile 
crossed  his  face.  "  For  her  sake  you  will 
hardly  do  that;  and  if  you  did,  —  well, 
there  would  be  an  end  of  all  compromise 
between  her  and  me.  I  should  proceed  to 
extremities,  that  is  all.  She  has  made  me 
suH'cr  horribly,  —  liumiliation,  jealousy,  — • . 
what  is  there  I  have  not  endin-ed  ?  I  sac- 
rificed my  career  to  her,  and  now  she  re- 
fuses me  the  miserable  means  of  existence. 
I  am  not  guided  by  your  English  ideas  of 
honor " — 


142 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


"  You  need  not  tell  me  that." 

"  And  as  I  mean  to  leave  En'^-land  at 
once,  your  threat  of  c'xcommuuicat'u)!!  is 
worth  so  miK'h  1 "  And  he  snapped  liis 
fingers.  "  Whereas  the  letters,  —  the  let- 
ters, you  see,  are  worth  something,  —  to 
Lord  Castle,  at  least." 

"  You  are  a  devil !  "  I  cried,  beside  my- 
self with  passion  ;  '•  but,  by  Heavens,  you 
shall  not  succeed  !  "  and  I  took  one  step 
to  the  window. 

lie  divined  the  truth,  or  something  like 
it,  for  he  walked  swiftly  to  the  door,  locked 
it,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  What  I 
had  engaged  to  do,  then,  must  be  done 
alone.  Not  an  instant  to  lose.  I  saw  my 
momentary  advantage,  made  a  dash  at  the 
open  bureau,  and  seized  the  casket.  To 
fling  it  out  of  the  window  to  Joe,  —  if  I 
could  only  accomplish  this !  But  already 
Benevento  had  sprung  upon  me  like  a  tiger, 
—  his  right. arm  round  my  neck,  his  left 
round  my  body.  He  tried  to  twist  his  leg 
in  mine,  and  so  bring  me  to  the  ground ; 
but,  though  his  strength  was  prodigious,  I 
was  the  better  wi'estler.  After  a  struggle 
roimd  the  room,  crash  we  both  came  among 
the  breakfast  things  ;  and  as  we  lay  on  Vhe 
ground,  by  the  upset  table,  the  Italian  was 
under-  me.  The  advantage  was  transient. 
I  saw  him  stretch  out  his  right  hand,  and 
seize  a  bread-knife.  I  grasjjed  his  wrist 
with  my  left,  and  so  held  it  back  ;  but,  in 
doing  so,  it  came  close  to  his  mouth.  He 
fastened  his  teeth  into  my  hand.  The 
other,  which  held  the  iron  casket  firmly 
by  the  handle,  I  now  drove  full  into  his 
face.  The  iron  smashed  his  front  teeth, 
compelling  him  to  leave  go.  A  horrible 
imprecation  burst  from  him  as  the  blood 
poured  from  his  mouth ;  but  still  he  held 
tlie  knife,  and  as  we  staggered  to  our  feet, 
I  knew  that  unless  I  could  reach  the  win- 
dow before  he  succeeded  in  wounding  me, 
my  object  would,  after  all,  probably  be 
frustrated. 

I  still  grasped  his  wrist  with  my  left 
hand ;  but,  from  pain  and  loss  of  blood,  it 
felt  every  moment  weaker.  I  could  scarcely 
breathe :  his  left  arm  crushed  my  ribs  like 
a  vice.  J^.Iy  height  and  my  activity  were 
two  great  advantajres  at  this  moment,  to 
counterbalance  his  superior  strength.  I 
contrived  to  edge  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
open  window. 

There  was  a  battering  at  the  door. 

"  Help,  help  !  "  I  cried.  The  ne.xt  in- 
stant my  wrist  gave  way,  and  down  came 
the  knife  into  my  shoulder. 

We  had  reached  the  very  edge  of  the 
window.  With  my  left  hand,  now  free,  I 
grasped  his  body,  while  I  disengaged  the 
right,  to  fling  out  the  casket.  I  heard  the 
door  being  burst  in. 


"  Fool  1  "  he  cried,  "  if  you  will  have  it, 
then,  —  go  !  "  and  in  his  blind  fury,  he  tried 
to  drive  me  against  the  frail  iron  balcony  ; 
but  I  caught  his  foot,  just  in  time.  He 
stumbled,  —  fell  against  its  first  (happily 
for  me),  and,  —  I  remember  no  more.  The 
next  instant  we  both  pitched  over  into  the 
street  below. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

It  will  save  trouble  if  I  here  briefly  tell 
what  followeTl,  as  I  afterwards  learnt  from 
my  faithful  Joe. 

He  succeeded  in  breaking  into  the  room 
at  the  very  moment  of  our  fall.  He  looked 
down  ;  a  horrible  sight  met  his  eyes  ;  and 
when  he  reached  the  street,  he  had  not  a 
hope  that  I  was  alive.  The  Italian's  skull 
was  fractured :  he  was  quite  dead,  but  he 
lay  under  me,  —  my  preservation  was  due 
to  this.  I  was  insensible,  however,  and 
bathed  in  blood ;  to  all  appearance  as  life- 
less as  the  corpse  beside  me.  The  crowd, 
which  by  this  time  was  dense,  pronounced 
unanimously  both  men  to  be  dead.  I  was 
placed  on  a  stretcher,  under  the  superin- 
tendence of  a  doctor,  who  happened  to  be 
passing,  and  stopped  his  brougham ;  and, 
conducted  by  Joe,  some  men  carried  me 
home.  The  police  made  no  objection  to 
this :  they  took  down  name  and  address, 
that,  in  case  life  was  not  extinct,  my  depo- 
sition might  be  made  hereafter ;  and  they 
found  enough  to  do  in  keejiing  back  the 
curious  crowd,  while  the  corpse  was  carried 
into  the  house,  and  laid  upon  the  bed  from 
which  the  Italian  had  so  lately  risen.  The 
dead  man's  hand  still  tightly  grasped  the 
knife  he  had  driven  into  my  shoulder ;  a 
circumstance  which  proved  of  great  service 
to  me  at  the  coroner's  inquest. 

Joe's  first  thought  was  to  despatch  a  mes- 
senger for  the  regimental  surgeon.  Long 
before  his  appearance,  however,  it  was  as- 
certained that  there  was  a  compound  frac- 
ture of  my  left  hip,  and  a  severe  concussion 
of  the  brain.  There  might  be  other  inter- 
nal injuries  ;  but  at  all  events  the  lamp  of 
life  still  flickered.  They  cut  the  clothes 
oir  me,  they  succeeded  in  restoring  anima- 
tion, thou'j;h  not  consciousness  ;  I  muttered 
incoherently  :  they  staunched  my  wounds, 
and  put  ice  upon  my  head.  There  were 
three  surgeons  now  round  me  :  they  were 
unanimous  in  deciding  that  the  chances  of 
my  i-ecovery  were  slight.  But  the  difficult 
operation  of  setting  the  fractured  hip  was 
at  last  accomplished.  Two  of  my  brother- 
officers  were  present.  One  of  them  under- 
took to  telegraph  to  my  mother  ;  but  owing 
to  a  mistake  in  the  address,  as  I  afcer\t'ards 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


143 


learnt,  the  telegram  did  not  reach  her  for 
several  hours. 

In  the  mean  time  a  note  (which  I  found 
unopened,  after  many  weeks,  in  a  plate  of 
visiting-cards)  had  been  brought  by  a  for- 
eiixn  servant,  who  carried  back  to  the 
writer  the  information  that  I  was  dying. 

The  note  ran  thus  :  — 

"  I  am  in  London  for  a  few  hours,  on  my 
way  to  Germany.     I  should  like  to  see  vou. 

"  M.  D'A." 

An  hour  later,  Madame  d'Arnheim  was 
with  me.  She  remained  watching  by  my 
bedside  all  that  night,  with  the  nurse  and 
the  regimental  surgeon.  Upon  her  arrival, 
my  brother-officers  retired.  My  life  hung 
u]ion  a  thread  :  I  was  delirious,  and  the 
dilHculty  of  keeping  my  hands  from  tearing 
oir  bandages  and  splinters  was  great.  "  The 
lady,"  as  'Joe  called  her,  he  confessed,  had 
exercised  a  soothing  influence  over  me  ; 
and,  indeed,  but  for  her  skill  and  intuitive 
perception  of  the  right  thing  to  be  done,  he 
thou'Tht  I  should  not  have  survived  the 
niizht.  This  was  strong  testimony  from  Joe, 
who  was  unwilling  to  admit  that  a  woman 
could  excel  in  any  thing.  The  surgeon 
confiTmed  the  statement.  From  the  mo- 
ment she  had  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and 
had  appealed  to  be  allowed  to  remain,  rep- 
resenting that  she  stood  more  in  the  light 
of  a  relation  to  me  than  anyone  in  London, 
(my  Uncle  Levison  was  absent),  her  help 
had  been  invaluable. 

Towards  morning  I  fell  asleep  —  the  deep 
sleep  of  exhaustion,  which  was  hailed  as  a 
hopeful  sign.  The  surgeon  proposed  that 
Madame  d'Arnheim  should  go  and  lie  down, 
but  she  declined  ;  the  nurse  was  nothing 
loth  to  snatch  a  couple  of  hours'  sleep  ; 
and  the  surgeon  depai'ted  to  his  hospital, 
leaving  me  to  the  care  of  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim and  of  Joe  until  his  return.  I  do  not 
know  what  o'clock  it  was  when  I  woke,  and 
became  gradually  but  distinctly  conscious 
of  all  that  was  going  on  around  me.  Was 
this  my  room  ?  ^es ;  no  doubt  of  it.  There, 
on  the  wall  opposite,  hung  my  "  Stag  at 
Bay,"  there  my  forage-cap  and  sword  :  the 
door  into  my  sitting-room  was  open  ;  I  could 
bear  the  kettle  singing  on  the  6re,  and  Joe's 
sternly  anxious  face  was  peering  at  me 
from  time  to  time  through  the  doorway. 
But  who  was  this,  sitting  beside  my  bed, 
her  fVice  shaded  by  her  hand  ?  Was  I 
dreaming  ?  Could  it  be  ?  but  no ;  impossi- 
ble !  IIow  could  she  be  here?  My  mind 
must  be  wandering.  I  tried  to  raise  my 
hand  to  my  aching  head  ;  it  fell  powerless  ; 
I  could  not  move  in  the  bed.  My  leg  felt 
as  if  held  in  a  vice.  What  did  it  all  mean  ? 
AVhat  hail  happened  ?  I  gave  a  feeble  sigh, 
and  Madame  d'Arnheim  raised  her  head. 


Then  slowly,  very  slowly,  the  tide  of  rec- 
ollection flowed.  One  by  one,  confused 
memories  of  the  past  day  returned.  It  was 
like  trying  to  make  the  pieces  of  a  broken 
mirror  fit  together ;  here  and  there,  an  im- 
age was  entire  ;  oftener,  the  fragments 
would  not  unite.  I  made  an  effort  to  speak  ; 
Madame  d'Arnheim  put  her  finger  to  her 
lips.  I  took  something  she  gave  me  ;  and, 
in  spite  of  the  effort  to  think,  in  a  iavf  min- 
utes I  had  fallen  asleep  once  more  —  but, 
this  time,  not  for  long.  I  was  awoke  by  — 
I  know  not  what  ;  certainly  not  by  any 
noise,  for  straw  was  laid  in  the  street,  and 
singular  care  was  taken  to  keep  the  house 
quiet.  But  I  woke,  with  the  uneasy  sense 
of  some  irritation  upon  my  nerves.  Two 
persons  were  speaking  in  the  next  room; 
the  door  was  a-jar;  I  recognized  my  moth- 
er's voice.  The  first  words  I  caught  dis- 
tinctly were,  — 

"  It  is  unfortunate  that  the  telegram 
reached  me  too  late  last  night  to  catch  the 
mail-train,  but  I  am  now  here  to  take  my 
place  by  my  son's  bed." 

There  was  something  unusually  chilling, 
even  for  her,  in  her  utterance  of  this  speech  ; 
and  I  fancied  that  Madame  d'Arnheim's 
voice  faltered  a  little  as  she  said,  — 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  are  come.  Your 
son  had  not  a  relation  in  London,  I  found ; 
that  is  why  I  came  to  look  after  him.  A 
woman  thinks  of  things  in  a  sick-room  no 
man  ever  does." 

"  I  understood  from  Carter  just  now  that 
there  is  a  hired  nurse  ? "  observed  my 
mother  dryly. 

"  jSIo  hired  nurse.  Lady  Rachel,  can  re- 
place the  strong  personal  interest  which 
watches  every  change  from  half-hour  to  half- 
hour.  I  would  trust  to  no  nurse,  if  I  were 
you." 

"  I  shall  not  do  so." 

"  He  must  be  watched  most  carefully  for 
many  nights.  In  his  prostrate  condition, 
all  depends  on  nourishment  being  admin- 
istered, in  small  quantities,  whenever  he 
can  take  it." 

"  Thank  you  —  I  shall  follow  the  doc- 
tor's directions  implicitly.  I  am  sorry  you 
have  been  troubled  so  much  "  — 

"  Ah  1  Lady  Rachel,  do  not  use  that  word. 
How  gladly  would  1  remain  here,  and  watch 
with  you,  if  you  would  allow  me  !  " 

"  That  is  wholly  out  of  the  question.  I 
regret,  Madame  d'Arnheim,  that  you  have 
thought  fit  to  disregard  conventionalities  in 
coming  to  my  son's  lodging.  Allow  me  to 
say  that  the  sooner  you  leave  it,  the  better 
for  your  own  reputation." 

"  Good  Heavens  1  Is  one  to  let  a  friend 
die,  because  of  what  the  wretched  con- 
temptible world  may  say  'i  I  know  it  too 
well,  and  am  very  iadifierent,  I  assure  you." 


144 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  So  I  foaretl,"  —  my  mother  poised  and 
listeiu'd  to  her  own  words,  as  they  dr()[)ped 
from  her,  —  "  so  I  feared  ;  and  no  woman  is 
so  with  impunity." 

"  Lady  Kaehel,  yon  know  nothing  of  me 
—  susjjend  your  jnd;;;nient.  I  should  be 
sorry  if  the  niotlier  of  the  boy  who  lies  there 
thought  harslily  of  me.  I  have  the  deep- 
est and  truest  interest  in  him  "  — 

"  So  I  supposed." 

"  And  perhaps,  I  miiht  say.  he  is  the 
only  person  I  leave  behind  me  with  regret, 
in  rpiitting  England." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  leaving  it  — 
for  cjoGil  ?  "  askeil  my  mother,  with  rather 
more  animation  in  her  tone. 

"lam." 

"  Your  husband  is  appointed  to  another 
legation  ?  " 

*'  He  remains  here." 

"  Oh  1  "  How  much  meaning  may  be 
conveyed  in  that  interjection. 

"  My  marri'id  life  is  at  an  end.  Lady 
Rachel  :  I  am  going  back  to  my  friends  ; 
but  my  domestic  concerns  can  have  no  in- 
terest for  you.  Would  you,  however,  do  me 
one  great  kindness  ?  " 

'^  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  To  let  me  hear  how  your  son  goes  on. 
I  shall  be  very  anxious." 

JNIy  mother  was  silent,  for  what  seemed 
to  me  the  best  part  of  a  minute. 

"  He  will,  no  doubt,  write  to  you  himself 
when  he  gets' better,  — 

"I  understand."  She  sighed  deeply. 
"  Well,  God  grant  that  your  confidence  in 
his  recovery  may  be  verified  I  I  pray  for  it 
from  my  heart.  I  will  not  resent  your  sus- 
picions of  me  :  a  mother's  jealousy  is  nat- 
ural, I  suppose.  Good-by.  You  will  not 
refuse  to  shake  hands  with  me,  I  hope  V  " 

A  minute  or  two  later  I  heard  the  door 
open ;  and  I  knew  that  she  was  gone. 
I  was  far  too  weak  to  feel  much  ;  but  I 
recollect  closing  my  eyes,  as  my  mother 
glided  into  the  room,  and  approached  my 
bed.  And  in  this  passive  condition,  scarce- 
ly uttering  a  sound,  but  conscious  of  all 
that  was  going  on  around  me,  I  lay  for 
many  days. 

I  was  to  live ;  the  foculty  pronounced 
this  oracularly  ;  and  I  knew  nothing  more. 
There  were  frequent  examinations  and  con- 
sultations :  fresh  surgeons  were  called  in, 
and  "  sat  upon  "  my  case  ;  but  of  the  re- 
sults I  was  kept  ignorant. 

My  mother  was  an  admirable  nurse,  per- 
haps the  better  for  the  possession  of  that  ad- 
amantine nature  which  I'endered  her  proof 
against  all  tender  anxiety  and  nervous- 
ness, —  all  "  giving  way,"  as  it  is  termed. 
That  which  had  to  be  done,  she  did,  gliding 
about  calmly  aud  noiselessly.  "  No  blind 
hurry,  no  delay,"  attended  her  movements. 


She  followed  with  exactitude  the  doctor's 
directions,  and  never  seemed  to  suffer  either 
fatigue,  impatience,  or  undue  solicitude  as 
to  the  result. 

I  think  it  was  on  the  fifth  morning  that 
the  doctor  asked  me  if  I  felt  equal  to  mak- 
ing my  deposition,  for  which  the  incjuest 
had  been  adjourned.  My  brain  was  quite 
clear,  mv  voice  tolerably  strong.  I  said  I 
was  ready,  and  a  magistrate  was  sent  for. 

Joe  entered  the  room  shortly  after,  and  I 
beckoned  to  him.  He  stooped,  and  I  whis- 
pered, — 

"  Did  you  see  a  small  iron  box  in  my 
hand  when  "  — 

He  pointed  to  a  cupboard. 

"  There  he  is.  When  I  picked  you  up, 
guessing  as  it  was  that  you'd  come  after, 
and  it  might  get  ye  into  trouble,  I  whipped 
him  into  my  pocket." 

"  Y'^ou  don't  know  what  a  service  you  did 
me  then,  —  did  me,  and  some  one  else  too." 

The  corners  of  his  grim  mouth  twitched. 

"  I'm  darned  if  I  see  what  there  is  to 
make  such  a  fuss  over.  If  the  beaks  asks 
me  a  lot  o'  questions,  what  am  I  to  tell 
him  ?  " 

'•  The  plain  truth,  only  don't  name  the 
box.  Has  Lady  Castle  sent  any  notes 
since  I've  been  lying  here  ?  " 

"  No  —  sent  to  inquire  every  day  — 
sometimes  twice." 

"  Y'ou'll  have  to  go  there  this  evening. 
Fetch  that  box,  and  seal  it  up  in  paper  be- 
fore my  eyes.  If  I  were  to  die,  after  all,  it 
mustn't  be  found.  You  will  swear  never  to 
bi'eathe  a  woi-d  about  it,  Joe  ?  " 

He  grumbled  the  required  promise,  ac- 
companying it  with  a  malediction  upon  that 
troublesome  sex  which  was  at  the  bottom 
of  all  mischief  in  this  world.  The  casket 
was  sealed  up  with  my  signet,  and  delivered 
by  Joe  into  Lady  Castle's  own  hand  that 
night. 

In  my  deposition,  I  pursued  the  same 
course  I  had  enjoined  upon  Joe.  I  omitted 
all  mention  of  the  letters,  —  every  thing 
which  could  direct  suspicion  to  Lady  Cas- 
tle. I  simply  declined  to  name  the  cause  of 
the  altercation  which  arose  between  the  Ital- 
ian and  myself;  and,  in  all  other  respects, 
I  told  the  plain  unvarnished  tale.  1  was 
asked  if  there  had  been  some  quarrel  be- 
tween us  at  cards,  the  previous  year,  which 
terminated  in  a  fight  ?  I  replied  that  I  had 
detected  the  deceased  in  cheating,  and 
that  a  scufiie  had  ensued  ;  but  I  had  failed 
to  convict  him.  We  had,  of  course,  been 
"  cuts  "  ever  since.  How  came  it  that  I 
called  upon  him  then  ?  Because  I  had 
other  and  distinct  grounds  of  complaint. 
Knowing,  however,  the  enmity  he  bore  me, 
I  had  been  prepared,  in  some  measure,  for 
violence.     It  was  on  this  account  that  I  had 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


145 


stationed  mv  servant  in  the  street  below. 
But  I  was  unharmed,  and  tar  less  powerful 
than  the  deceased.  He  had  tlyown  him- 
self upon  me,  had  seized  a  knife,  and  driv- 
en it  into  my  shoulder  ;  and  it  was  in  the 
filial  elfort  to  throw  me  out  of  window  that 
he  had  lost  his  balance,  and  that  we  had 
botli  been  brought  to  tlio  ground  together. 

The  knife  found  in  liis  hand,  Joe's  testi- 
mony, the  maid's,  all  corroborated  my  story. 
Furthermore,  there  was  evidence  beyond  a 
doubt  as  to  the  man's  character ;  for  some 
loaded  dice  and  a  pack  of  marked  cards 
were  discovered  among  his  effects.  The 
verdict  returned  was  one  Avhich  entirely 
cleared  me  —  as  far  as  the  law  was  con- 
cerned. 

Not  so  as  regarded  the  opinion  of  a  cer- 
tain portion  of  the  public.  My  door  was 
still  daily  besieged  with  inquiries  ;  nothing 
could  be  kinder  than  my  brother-officers 
and  other  young  fellows  in  offering  to  come 
and  sit  with  me ;  my  mother  was  over- 
whelmed with  notes.  I  was  the  small  hero 
of  the  hour,  in  whom  curiosity  and  inter- 
est centred;  but,  for  all  that,  I  was  re- 
garded as  a  very  black  sheep  by  some. 

My  uncle,  who  good-naturedly  returned  to 
town  as  soon  as  the  news  reached  him,  think- 
ing he  might  be  of  service  to  my  mother,  was 
the  first  person  who  opened  my  eyes  as  to 
the  light  in  which  what  he  was  pleased  to 
term  my  "  escapade  "  was  commonly  re- 
garded. 

"  Well,  old  man,"  he  said,  the  first  time 
he  was  admitted  to  my  bedside,  "  this  is  a 
bad  business ;  but  I'm  deuced  glad  to  see 
you  alive,  after  the  account  I  had.  You'll 
be  all  right  soon,  I  hope,  now.  You  don't 
suffer  much  ?  " 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  am  still.  My  back 
hurts  me  if  I  try  to  turn." 

"  Ah  I  well,  that'll  come  all  right.  Won- 
derful escape  !  Every  one  was  saying  last 
night  at  White's  —  never  heard  of  such  an 
escape  !  Sad  dog  1  "  he  continued,  laugh- 
ing. "  That's  what  every  one  says ;  for, 
of  course,  the  cause  of  this /rat-as  is  pretty 
generally  known  I  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked,  feeling 
the  blood  rush  to  my  face. 

"'Castle  DangeroHs  ! '  Ah!  my  dear 
boy,  if  you  had  only  listened  to  me  I  I 
warned  you  long  ago  against  a  liaison  of 
this  kind  getting  the  upper  hand  of  you. 
Beyond  a  certain  jiolnt  it  is  the  very 
devil !  •' 

I  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns.  Lady 
Castle's  name,  then,  as  I  might  have  fore- 
seen, had  not  been  kept  out  of  the  story. 
But  how  wide  of  the  truth  was  it,  if  my 
uncle's  version  was  to  be  accepted  I 

".  I  assure  you,  Uncle  Levison,  this  is  an 
entire  mistake.  Lady  Castle  has  no  more 
10 


to  do  —  I  mean  that  I  —  that  is  to  say, 
if  you  fancy  that  jealousy  of  Benevento 
brought  about  this  quarrel,  you  are  wrona^. 
I  wish  you  would  give  the  story  your  un- 
qualified contradiction." 

lie  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  smiled  in- 
credulously. 

"  I'll  say  any  thing  you  like.  It's  all  the 
same  to  me  ;  but  I  tell  you  fairly,  the  world 
won't  believe  me.  AVhy,  my  dear  boy,  your 
own  mother  wouldn't  1  She  knows  all  about 
it,  bless  you  1  and  the  other  afTair  too  ; 
and  shakes  her  head  over  your  delinciuen- 
cies.  She  tells  me  she  positively  found  the 
other  lady  here  !  —  actually  in  your  lodging  I 
I  really  couldn't  help  laughing  ;  she  was  so 
awfully  scandalized  1  " 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  groaned  inwardly.  I 
forgot  uncle,  mother,  all  the  world  save  one, 
at  that  moment.  For  the  first  time  the 
thought  had  been  driven  home  to  me,  what 
cruel  agony  my  mother's  version  of  the 
catastrophe  and  its  consequences  would 
cause  my  poor  darling  !  A  sudden  intui- 
tion showed  me  how  the  truth  could  be 
made  to  look  in  Evelyn's  eyes.  Doubly 
perjured  —  fighting  for  one  woman,  living 
with  another,  who  had  abandoned  husband 
and  home  for  my  sake  —  this,  no  doubt,  waa 
how  I  was  represented  I 

I  was  too  exhausted,  too  sick  at  heart,  to 
say  another  word  to  my  uncle.  Not  till 
some  days  later  was  the  conversation  re-* 
newed  between  us. 


CHAPTER  L. 

It  was  Passion  Week.  I  had  been  car- 
ried to  my  sofa  in  the  sitting-room  for  the 
first  time.  A  batch  of  novels  and  weekly 
papers  lay  on  the  table  at  my  side.  My 
mother  was  at  church.  Joe  was  drilling 
my  boots,  and  deploying  them  into  line 
along  the  wall  of  my  bedroom  :  I  could 
see  him  through  the  open  door.  I  felt,  as 
one  often  does  when  approaching  convales- 
cence, unusually  depressed.  Though  daily 
stronger  in  other  respects,  the  pain  in  my 
back,  whenever  I  moved,  was  as  great  as 
ever.  I  took  up  "  The  Court  Jester,"  and  ran 
my  eye  languidly  down  its  vapid  columns; 
dinners,  marriages,  j)rivate  theatricals,  long  ' 
lists  of  company,  flat  jests,  and  on-dils. 
Among  the  latter,  I  came  upon  the  follow- 
ing, — 

"  We  are  happy  to  learn  that  hopes  are 
now  entertained  of  Mr.  Penrudilocke's  par- 
tial recovery.  It  is  still  feared  however,  that 
he  may  never  completely  recover  the  use  of 
his  limbs.  It  is  apprehended  that  there  is 
injury  of  the  spine.  The  death  of  INIr.  Pen- 
ruddocke's  elder  brother  by  a  carriage  acci- 


146 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


dont,  only  three  or  four  months  ago  will  be 
fresh  in  tliu  memory  ol"  our  readers.  This 
seeond  terrible  eatastrophe,  whieh  has 
threatened  to  deprive  Lady  Raehel  Pen- 
ruddoeke  of  her  sole  surviving  son,  has 
elicited  universal  sympatliy  in  fashionable 
cireles." 

The  paper  dropped  from  my  powerless 
hand.  Was  it,  could  it  be,  true  that  such 
a  fate  Avas  in  store  lor  me  ?  Oh,  my  God  ! 
let  me  die,  —  a  thousand  times  rather,  let 
me  die,  —  than  drag  on  my  weary  days  as  a 
cripple,  a  l)urden  to  myself  and  to  every 
one  around  me  1  Such  an  existence  to  me, 
whose  whole  life  had  been  one  of  bodily 
activity,  who  had  no  sedentary  pursuits, 
was  neither  scholar  nor  artist,  and  excel- 
led in  nothing  but  j)hysical  aceom])lish- 
ments,  —  such  an  existence,  I  I'cpeat,  seem- 
ed absolutely  intolerable.  I  was  still  too 
weak  to  have  much  self-control ;  and  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  own,  that,  as  I  thought  of  it, 
the  hot  tears  coursed  down  my  cheeks.  I 
kept  on  saying  to  myself  that  it  could  not 
be  ;  but  the  tide  of  conviction  that  rolled  in 
upon  me  was  swelled  by  each  circumstance 
I  called  to  mind.  The  result  of  every  con- 
sultation had  been  sedulously  kept  from  me. 
No  one  spoke  of  the  I'uture.  When  I  had 
expressed  a  hope  that  I  might  soon  be  al- 
lowed to  go  out,  my  mother  had  turned  the 
subject.  Lastly,  there  was  my  inward  con- 
sciousness of  inability  to  move  without  great 
pain,  —  pain  which  I  strove  hard  to  hide, 
and  never  openly  admitted. 

I  lay  there,  with  closed  eyes,  trying  to 
meet  my  sentence  with  fortitude,  and  feel- 
ing, alas !  what  a  very  coward  I  was  when 
the  only  true  test  was  applied  I  After  a 
time  I  called  out  in  what  strove  to  be  a 
cheerful  voice,  — 

"  Joe,  you've  been  a  long  time  over  those 
boots  ;  and  as  to  the  '  tops,'  I'm  thinking  you 
might  as  well  put-them  away.  1  shall  never 
■wear  them  again,  I  suppose." 

He  eyed  me  for  a  moment  severely. 

"  Who  ever's  been  a-puttin'  that  idea-r 
into  your  head  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know  the  fellow's  name,"  I  re- 
plied, with  a  moony  sort  of  snule,  "  but 
it's  in  print ;  theretbre,  you  know,  it  must 
be  true." 

"  The  saw-bones  may  say  what  they 
likes,"  he  returned  stoutly  (by  which  re- 
ference to  the  •'  faculty,"  what  they  had 
said,  no  less  than  Joe's  cognizance  of  the 
same,  was  made  clear  to  me),  "I  don't  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it.  AVhy,  it's  not  yet  a 
month,  and  look  at  the  wound  in  your 
shoulder ! "  (these  two  words  he  pro- 
nounced like  "pound"),  it's  a'most 
healed  ;  and,  as  to  your  leg,  —  why,  it'll 
be  as  20od  as  new,  come  midsummer." 

•'Will  it?     I  doubt  that.     But  it's  not 


my  leg.  You  know  well  enough  what  it 
is,  Joe." 

He  made^as  though  he  heard  me  not. 

"  I  mind  me  of  a  chap  as  fell  olf  of  a  roof 
Avhen  we  lay  in  Quebec.  You  could nt 
hardly  tell  which  was  his  head  and  which 
was  his  feet  wlien  we  lifted  him.  But, 
bless  you,  he  was  about  again  in  three 
months,  and  none  the  wuss." 

A  charital>le  iiction  of  Joe's,  no  doubt; 
but  it  was  useless,  I  saw,  to  press  him  lur- 
ther :  he  would  not  admit  the  truth,  or 
what  was  generally  believed  to  be  the 
truth,  as  to  my  condition.  I  resolved  to 
speak  to  my  mother  :  she  would  not  flinch 
from  telling  me  the  real  state  of  th«  case. 
We  had  had  but  little  conversation  hither- 
to, for  I  had  shrunk  from  it.  While  sensi- 
ble of  her  untii'ing  care,  I  still  felt  sore  at 
the  treatment  to  which  Madame  d'Arnheira 
had  been  subjected,  and  the  interpretation 
put  upon  her  presence  here.  There  are  acts 
which  our  hearts  resent  so  keenly  that  no 
amount  of  personal  obligation  can  outbal- 
ance them.  This  behavior  of  my  mother's 
was  of  such  a  nature.  Did  she,  or  did  she 
i)ot,  in  her  secret  soul,  believa  the  scandal 
of  which  Madame  d'Arnheiiu's  nursing  me 
served  as  a  })lausible  confirmation  ?  I  was 
unable  to  decide  then,  and  am  so  still, 
though  her  subse(|uent  conduct  will  furnish 
the  reader  with  additional  material  forform- 
inof  an  unbiassed  iudtj-ment. 

She  came  in,  looking  beautiful  and  calm 
through  all  her  troubles.  The  walk  had 
bioufrht  a  faint  glow  to  her  cheek,  from 
which  the  color  had  been  absent  during 
these  weeks  of  close  confinement,  indeed 
ever  since  Ray's  death.  She  undid  her  bon- 
net-strings, pulled  the  black  gloves  from 
her  long  white  hands,  and  said,  in  her 
measured  way,  — 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  ?  " 

"  If  I  tell  you  the  truth,  mother,  will  you 
be  e(jually  candid  ?  "  She  inclined  her 
head,  without  moving  a  muscle  of  her  face. 
"  Well,  every  time  I  move  it  is  agony  to 
my  back.  Now,  what  do  the  doctors  say  ? 
Is  it  hopeless  V  " 

"  No,  not  hopeless ;  but  very  serious." 

"There  w  a  hope,  then, —  that's  some- 
thing !  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me  all. 
Nothiiig  can  seem  bad  as  long  as  there  is  a 
hope." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  will  be  on  your  back  for 
a  lont!:,  long  time,  I  fear." 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean  ?  —  months  or 
years  r 

"  No  one  can  tell :  it  depends  on  how 
nature  responds  to  the  medical  treatment ; 
but  absolute  rest  is  the  first  essential.  As 
soon  as  you  can  be  moved,  we  must  go  to 
purer  air,  Hampstead  or  Norwood  ;  and,. by 
and  by,  you  are  to  be  sent  to  seme  German 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


147 


bath.  Wonderful  cures,  they  say,  are  ef- 
ft'ctt'd  hy  tliose  hot  sprin;j;s." 

I  was  silent  for  some  minutes. 

"  They'll  rf'we  me  a  certain  number  of 
months'  sick-leave,  —  and  after  tliat.  if  I'm 
not  all  riolit,  adieu  to  all  my  dreams  of  am- 
bition, I  suppose.     I  must  sell  out." 

"  You  know  my  views  about  your  re- 
miiinint;;  in  the  army,  —  so  I  say  nothiufr. 
All  this  disastrous  and  disreputable  busi- 
ness would  not  have  happened,  bad  you 
sooner  given  up  a  career  in  which  you 
are  exposed  to  temptations  you  have  no 
strength  to  resist." 

•'  You  know  but  little  of  my  temptations, 

—  perhaps  even  less  than   I  do  of  yours," 

—  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  hers,  —  '•  but,  if  it  is 
any  comfort  to  you  to  hear  me  acknowledjj;e 
that  I  have  behaved  like  a  voungr  fool  in 
this  affair,  and  richly  deserve  all  I  got, 
well,  you  have  that  satisfaction.  I  claose 
to  mix  myself  up  in  what  did  not  concern 
me,  and  tor  the  sake  of  some  one  who  cer- 
tainly did  not  deserve  it,  and  I've  been 
punished  for  my  folly.  I  see  that 
now." 

"lam  thankful  the  terrible  lesson  has 
not  been  lost  upon  you.  And  so  will  all 
those  be  who  have  vour  interest  most 
nearly  at  heart." 

'•  Mother,  what  have  you  told  Evelyn 
about  my  fall  ?  " 

Nothing  had  been  further  from  my 
thoughts  than  to  put  this  question  to  her; 
but  it  rose  to  my  lips  suddenly,  and  I 
yielded  to  the  desire  of  hearing  what  my 
mother  would  say. 

She  paused.  Whenever  the  thing  to  be 
said  was  disagreeable,  she  spoke  with  unu- 
sual deliberation. 

"  I  have  hidden  nothing  from  her.  She 
is  deeply  grieved  ;  but  her  eyes  are  opened. 
She  sees,  with  sorrow,  af"ter  all  your  pro- 
testations, that  you  are  '  unstable  as  water.' 
And  —  I  sjjcak  openly,  Osmund  —  she 
will  now,  I  think,  be  more  amenable  to  her 
mother's  wishes." 

"I  ask  again,  what  have  you  told  her? 
If  you've  given  my  uncle's  version  of  this 
aft'.iir,  and  said  that  jealousy  of  Lady  Cas- 
tle was  the  cause  of  it,  —  it  is  utterly  false. 
And  if  you've  maligned  my  poor  Iriend, 
Madame  d'Arnheiai,  1  tell  you  it  is  cruel, 
mother,  —  cruel  and  unnatural.  Your  aim 
seems  to  be  to  divide  me  from  every  one 
who  cares  for  me.  If  I  am  to  be  a  wretched 
crij)ple  for  life,  God  knows  I  wouldn't  be  so 
seliish  as  to  try  to  bind  p]velyn's  lot  to 
mine  ;  but  she  has  said  she  will  never  be 
another's,  and  no  one  can  free  her  from 
that  protnise  but  myself.  Misrepresenta- 
tion can't  do  it.  1  feel  certain  that  she 
doi-sn't  believe,  and  that  she  never  will  be- 
lieve, me  to  be  heartless  and  double-faced, 


which  you  and  the  world  in  general  wish 
to  make  me  out !  " 

"  Your  violence  is  quite  uncalled  for," 
returned  my  mother,  with  aggravatiiifif  gen- 
tleness. '•  I  have  no  '  wish  to  make  you 
out'  any  thimr,  Osmund.  It  is  sad  your 
persisting  in  this  sort  of  language.  I  wish 
I  could  see  you  in  a  frame  of  mind  more 
becoming  the  season,  and  the  gi'ave  peril 
from  which  Providence  has  preserved  you. 
Am  I  not  devoting  myself  to  you  ?  I  make 
no  merit  of  this,  for  it  is  my  simple  duty ; 
but  as  you  will  now  be  dependent  on  my 
care  for  some  time  to  come,  I  wish  you 
would  try  to  believe  that  in  all  I  do  I  am 
guided  solely  by  a  desire  for  your  welfare. 
It  would  make  my  task  much  easier." 

She  had  such  a  way  of  putting  things, 
that  I  should  have  felt  ashamed  of  myself, 
if  I  had  not  kept  my  ground  of  complaint 
steadily  in  view. 

'•  I  don't  want  to  make  it  harder  ;  but  if 
you  wi/l  misinterpret  every  action  of  mine, 
what  am  I  to  do  V  When  I  announced  my 
resolve  to  give  up  Beaumanoir,  you  know 
the  coloring  you  gave  to  it.  \Vhen  you 
began  to  susjject  that  my  attachment  to 
Evelyn  was  serious,  you  repeated  eveiy 
wretched  piece  of  gossip  about  me,  with 
the  view  of  separating  us.  According  to 
your  view  of  things,  you  have  my  gooil  at 
heart,  I  dare  say  ;  but  I'll  be  hang-ed  if  I' 
can  feel  grateful  for  all  the  misery  you 
have  caused  me." 

"  This  is  terrible  !  "  said  my  mother,  with 
a  sigh  of  resignation.  "  I  can  only  hope 
that  some  day  you  will  be  more  just.  You 
have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  your  misery, 
I  am  afraid.  The  ball  was  at  your  feet,  if 
you  had  chosen  to  pick  it  up  ;  but  you  cast 
it  from  you.  Did  1  oppose  your  marrying 
Evelyn,  when  you  came  into  the  property  ? 
No ;  though,  of  course,  you  might  make  a 
far  more  advantageous  marriage;  but  you 
cannot  deny  that  I  furthered  it.  Your  own 
obstinacy  it  was  that  severed  you.  All  I 
have  opposed,  as  much  as  Evelyn's  mother, 
is  two  paupers  marrying." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  ray  '  obstinacy,' 
though  it  seems  odd,  doesn't  it,  that,  if  I 
am  obstinate,  I  should  be  '  unstable  as  wa- 
ter '  ?  But  one  thing  I  should  like  ex- 
plained. If  I  am  all  that  you  ;nid  Mrs. 
Hamleigh  say  that  I  am,  what  dill'crence 
does  my  fortune  make  ?  I  am  as  unworthy 
to  be  Evelyn's  husband  with  a  thousand  a 
year  as  with  fifteen." 

"  Cause  and  effect  are  closely  blent," 
said  my  mother,  more  rapidly  than  usual, 
and  her  eyes  avoided  mine,  —  she  looked 
straight  before  her  out  of  the  window. 
"  Had  you  possessed  any  sense  of  the  dig- 
nity of  your  position,  as  the  head  of  an  old 
family,  you  would  not  have  behaved  as  you 


148 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


have  (lone;  but  the  hnhits  yon  have  ac- 
quired (lisiueline  you  lor  tlie  respousil)ili- 
ties  of  your  station.  You  were  lawless  and 
wilful  as  a  boy,  and  so  you  are  still,"  she 
continued,  in  a  voire  that  shook  with  un- 
wonted excitement.  "  You  have  done  your 
utmost  to  break  my  heart ;  and,  if  Evelyn  is 
as  mucli  attached  to  you  as  you  believe, 
you  will  break  hers.  There  is  not  another 
man  in  England  who  would  do  what,  you 
mean  to  do  1  Ruin  himself  and  his  family, 
lose  his  love,  cast  a  stain  upon  his  father's 
and  lirother's  name,  and  all  for  an  idea !  — 
a  sentimental  whim  !  " 

'•  One  word,  and  let  it  be  the  last."  I 
raised  myself  with  great  pain  from  my  pil- 
low. "/  have  not  cast  a  stain  upon  mij 
viother's  name.  Reniemljer  that  —  and  let 
us  both  be  silent." 

She  ijuried  her  face  in  her  hands.  She 
murmured  something  —  I  know  not  what. 
The  only  words  I  caught  presently  were, 
"  j\Iy  j)oor  Ray  !  "  Tbere  was  a  long  strug- 
gle to  conquer  her  emotion  (of  whatever 
nature  it  may  have  been,  it  was  almost  the 
only  occasion  in  my  life  when  I  saw  her 
visibly  moved),  and  then  she  rose.  The 
black  veil  from  her  bonnet  had  fallen  over 
her  tace  as  she  left  the  room. 

We  scarcely  sj^oke  to  each  other  but  in 
monosyllables  for  many  days  afterwards. 


CHAPTER    LI. 

The  hunger  for  power,  which  was  mv 
mother's  ruling  passion,  and  before  whi'rh, 
as  we  have  seen,  even  moral  obstacles  were 
as  naught,  when  occasion  "justified  "*  it,  in 
her  eyes  (for  she  believed  in  herself  more 
thoroughly  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
known),  this  hunger  found  something  to 
feed  on  in  the  subservience  to  her  will,  in 
all  material  matters,  which  she  found  in  me 
from  this  time  tbrwards.  I  let  her  order 
what  she  liked,  consult  with  the  doctors, 
and  arrange  as  she  pleased  our  plans  for 
the  future.  I  rar(jly  expressed  an  opinion 
or  a  wish.  I  reserved  the  exercise  of  my 
will  for  great  occasions  ;  on  all  minor  ones 
my  mother  might  rule  supreme. 

And  I  date  a  notable  change  in  myself 
from  that  hour.  I  felt  no  longer  the  same 
man.  The  elasticity  of  spirit  which,  through 
every  vicissitude  and  anxiety,  had  never 
deserted  me,  was  suddenly  gone.  I  became 
more  and  more  despondent  about  myself, 
and,  shrinking  alike  from  the  "  chaff"  and 
the  s3'mpathyofmy  acquaintance,  I  declined 
seeing  nearly  every  one  who  called.  Many 
were  the  gratifying  attentions  I  received, 
if  I  had  not  felt  apathetic  to  every  thing  ; 
books,  rare  wine,  rare  fruit,  delicate  little 


scented  notes  of  inquiry.  The  world, 
which  cannot  refrain  frotn  saying  many 
hard  things,  does  manv  kind  ones,  after 
all. 

Rut  it  was  not  in  the  power  of  man  or 
woman  now  tO  lighten  the  weight  that  had 
fallen  upon  me.  A  cripple,  —  a  wretched 
valetudinarian  for  life !  That  was  the 
thought  never  absent  f()r  five  minutes  from 
my  mind.  As  I  grew  stronger  in  other 
ways,  as  my  wounds  healed,  and  my  broken 
bones  re-united,  the  incapacity  of  move- 
ment grew  more  and  more  galling  to  me. 
While  I  was  so  weak  as  to  feel  averse  from 
exertion,  I  had  not  realized  what  the  thral- 
dom was.  Oh  !  the  hours  of  self-reproach, 
of  vain  repining !  I  could  fill  a  chapter 
with  them ;  biit  they  would  be  neither 
anmsiiig  nor  profital)le  reading.  And  this 
was  but  the  beginning  of  my  punishment ! 
From  the  very  first,  I  took  a  hopeless  view 
of  my  own  case.  I  knew  what  doctors  and 
triends  meant.  It  was  all  very  well  to  buoy 
me  up  with  tales  of  the  miraculous  effects 
of  German  baths,  of  warm  climates,  and  — 
of  time.  I  was  not  to  be  deceived.  The 
conviction  sank  deeper  and  deeper  into 
my  mind  that  I  should  never  be  as  I  had 
once  been.  The  shock  to  my  system  had 
been  such,  I  felt  it,  as  must  leave  its  last- 
ing effects  through  life. 

I  longed  to  be  in  the  country ;  and  at 
last  the  doctors  pronounced  that  I  might 
be  moved  to  Hampstead,  where  my  mother 
had  taken  a  house.  The  day  before  I  was 
to  leave  Mount  Street,  Joe  put  his  head  in 
at  the  sitting-room  door  and  growled, — 

"  Mr.  Francis  below.  Wouldn't  let  him 
up.     See  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course.  How  could  you, 
Joe  ?  " 

"  You  kep'  that  'ere  lord  yesterday 
a-waitin',  and  wouldn't  see  him  ai'ter  all  — 
/  didn't  know,"  muttered  my  faithful  Cer- 
berus. 

Francis's  face  was  the  pleasantest  and 
most  cheering  sight  I  had  looked  on  all 
these  weeks.  He  took  my  hand  with  that 
earnest  cordiality  which  characterized  him 
so  especially,  and  sat  down  beside  my  sofa. 

"  AVe  came  up  from  Torquay  last  night. 
Mr.  Humphrey  has  been  ill,  or  we  should 
have  returned  sooner ;  for  Elizabeth  and  I 
have  both  been  sadly  anxious  about  you, 
my  dear  bo)',  and  wanted  to  be  nearer  to 
you.  Thank  God,  you  are  now  out  of 
danger  I " 

"  Of  life,  yes :  vou  wt  mv  scrawl  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and,  since  then,  two  or  three 
days  ago,  your  mother  wrote  most  kindly 
and  fully.  Her  first  note,  some  weeks  be- 
fore, was  necessarily  brief,  no  doubt.  This 
one  relieved  our  great  anxiety  about  you. 
And  another  thinir  I  know  vou  will  be  glad 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


149 


to  learn,"  —  here  he  dropped  his  voice,  — 
"  she  sent  a  kind  message  to  Elizabeth." 

I  confess  I  was  too  much  astonished  to 
finil  any  thing  to  say.  At  last  I  miirniured 
an  inquiry  as  to  how  Elizabeth  was 
now. 

"  In  health,  really  well,  but  her  spirits 
do  not  recover.  She  has  grown  years  older 
in  these  few  months  —  iroui  the  undisci- 
plined child  into  a  thoughtful,  almost  stern 
voung  woman.  The  thing  that  has  roused 
her  most  since  her  father's  death  has  been 
her  keen  interest  in  your  illness." 

"  I  am  glad  it  has  had  one  good  result. 
Life-long  expiation  for  an  act  of  folly  —  it 
■was  no  worse  than  egregious  folly  —  seems 
rather  hard  —  don't  }0U  think  so?  " 

"  I  think  whatever  God  sends,  and  I  say 
it  in  sincerity,  may  prove  a  blessing,  if  we 
receive  it  in  the  right  spirit,  Osmund.  In 
every  misfortune,  we  may  '  entertain  an 
angel  unawares.' " 

"  The  angel  doesn't  come  to  me,  Mr. 
Francis." 

"  Do  you  ask  for  him?"  he  said  gently, 
taking  my  hand  in  his  —  '•  do  you  ask  for 
him  with  your  whole  heart,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  I  ask  ibr  nothing,  except  for  the  power 
to  move  about  again.  I  lie  here  all  day 
louT,  thinking  how  on  earth  I'm  to  support 
lifelike  this  !  " 

"  Supposing  this  lot  to  be  yours,  which  I 
trust  it  will  not  be,  how  should  a  man,  and 
a  Christian,  meet  it  ?  Not  by  bemoaning 
his  fate.  Even  the  great  heathens  did  not 
do  that ;  and  there  is  a  courage  far  higher 
than  Stoic  fortitude." 

"  I've  never  thought  much  about  religion. 
As  you  know,  early  impressions  are  not  cal- 
culated to  make  me  a  devout  man." 

"  AVhy  ?  Because  you  have  let  some  poor 
erring  creature  like  yourself  stand  between 
you  and  the  truth.  You  have  noi  sought  out 
the  Great  Light  for  yourself,  putting  aside 
all  human  instruments,  which  are  like  clouds 
between  usand  the  sun.  I  belong  to  a  church 
which  clings  to  tbrmula  ;  which  finds  in  sym- 
bol and  ceremony,  penance  and  confession, 
so  many  helps  to  God's  worship ;  they  do- 
not  obstruct  my  views  of  the  Creator.  They 
are  only  the  shell.  But  the  heart  of  all  true 
faith  is  spiritual  comumnion.  AVithout  it  all 
creeds  are  lifeless.  Do  not  think  about  hu- 
manity and  its  weakness ;  look  upwards,  and 
though  the  earth  fail  you,  my  boy,  you  will 
assuredly  find  help  and  comtbrt." 

But  my  mind  could  not  be  brought  so 
readily  to  relinquish  the  contemplation  of 
my  nfis fortunes,  ami  to  seek  fbrhigl  er  sour- 
ces of  consolation  than  the  objective  side  of 
the  case  ailbrded. 

"  It  is  so  awful  to  think  of  never  being 
able  to  get  about  again  !  And  there's  some- 
thing  even  worse  than  that.     1  suppose  1 


nmst  give  up  all  my  hopes  now  —  you  know 
what  I  mean  ?  " 

He  tried  to  cheer  me  ;  Lady  Rachel  had 
written  to  him,  what  she  had  told  me,  that 
the  doctors  were  sanguine  of  my  ultimate 
re(;overy,  though  it  might  be  long  first. 
But  I  only  shook  my  head.  The  idea  that 
I  should  be  a  crij)ple  for  life  had  taken  such 
firm  possession  of  my  mind,  that  nothing 
would  remove  it. 

"  It  is  a  pity  I  wasn't  killed  outright.  It 
would  have  saved  a  deal  of  trouble,"  I  said, 
with  a  dreary  attempt  at  a  smile.  "  Eliza- 
beth would  have  succeeded  naturally  then, 
without  all  the  bother  of  a  transfer.  AV^ho 
are  her  solicitors  ?  In  less  than  a  month  I 
come  of  age  now,  and  the  thing  must  be 
done  as  soon  as  possible  ;  for  I  won't  go 
abroad  till  I've  signed  my  name  to  the 
deeds.     Will  you  see  Little  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  will  not  ask  me  to  make 
any  arrangements  ibr  you  ?  I  had  rather 
not  give  a  color,  even,  to  Lady  Rachel's 
suspicion  that  I  had  influenced  you.  Mr. 
Little  will  go  to  Hampstead  himself,  no 
doubt,  whenever  you  are  minded  to  see 
him." 

"  Ask  him  to  come  on  Saturdav,  then. 
I  shall  tell  my  mother  "^- 

The  door  opened,  and  she  appeared,  a 
gracious  smile  breaking  through  her  sor- 
rowful aspect,  like  the  sun  from  behind 
clouds. 

"  I  heai;d  you  were  here.  Mr.  Francis," 
she  began,  extending  her  hand,  with  the 
air  of  a  beneficent  queen ;  "  and,  though  I 
have  a  world  of  business  this  morning,  I 
would  not  miss  seeing  you  for  five  minutes. 
How  do  you  find  him  looking  ?  Better  than 
you  expected,  I  h(jpe  V  " 

"  He  is  not  looking  ill,  at  least  not  worse 
than  one  must  expect  after  all  he  has  gone 
through,"  rejjlied  the  truthful  man  ;  "  but 
he  is  low  about  himself,  and  will  be  all  the 
better  for  change  of  air  and  scene." 

"  And  a  little  society,"  added  my  mother. 
"  He  refuses  to  see  most  people  who  call ; 
but  I  think  the  visits  of  one  or  two  of  his 
intimate  friends  and  relations  at  Hampstead 
will  do  him  good.  We  shall  have  two  spare 
rooms.  There  will  always  be  one  for  you, 
Mr.  Francis,  whenever  you  can  stay." 

I  listened  in  surprise  ;  but  it  was  nothing 
to  my  astonishment  at  what  followed. 

".•How  is  Miss  Penruddocke  ?  I  hope  you 
conveyed  my  message  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  she  was  most  .sensible  of  your 
kindness.  She  is  a  great  deal  better.  Still, 
like  Osmund  here,  her  spirits  want  rousing." 

"  You  had  better  bring  her  down  to  Hamp- 
stead. Though  we  are  almost  strangers,  she 
knows  Osnnnul  well,  and  the  two  invalids 
will  entertain  each  other.  You  can  tell  Mr. 
Humphrey  1  will  lake  great  care  of  her." 


150 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


I  saw  that  even  dear  old  Francis  was 
dunihloiinded. 

''  Elizabeth  and  Mr.  Hiinipliroy  will,  1 
am  sm-e,  both  ....  teel  very  niiuh  .... 
your  ....  oreat  ....  unexpected  kind- 
ness. Lady  Rachel." 

'•  Oh !  Mr.  Francis,"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh,  and  then  a  sweet  smile  that  cliased 
it  away,  "  you  ought  to  know  me  by  this 
time.  I  never  continue  a  struggle,  when  I 
am  once  convinced  it  is  hopeless.  I  have 
suiFered  cruelly  on  account  of  all  this,  —  it 
would  be  folly  to  deny  it.  It' I  Avere  vindic- 
tive, I  should  positively  hate  Miss  Penruil- 
docke.  But  I  am  not,  thank  God  !  And 
since  I  see  it  is  inevitable,  the  wise  thing  is 
to  meet  it  graceiuUy." 

And  a  very  wise  thing  I  thought  it.  My 
mother's  cordial  attitude  towards  Elizabeth, 
—  the  very  last  thing,  certainly,  I  had  dared 
hope  for  —  would  obviate  a  number  of  un- 
pleasant possibilities  which  I  had  foreseen. 
But  the  fact  of  her  suddenly  enduing  her- 
self with  this  wisdom  was  to  me  inexplic- 
able. Presently,  in  reply  to  a  question  i'rom 
Francis  toucliing  the  Hampstead  house,  she 
said, — 

'•  I  have  taken  it  for  a  year.  It  will  do 
to  move  my  things  into  from  Beaumanoir, 
for  the  time,  while  I  look  out  for  a  new 
home.  After  four  and  twenty  years,"  she 
continued  q^iite  calmly,  "  the  uprooting  is 
no  small  matter.  I  must  be  there  for  a 
fortni'j.'ht  to  pack  up  my  goods  and  chat- 
tels, I  suppose,  before  we  go  abroail.  Will 
you  come  and  take  charge  of  Osmund  dur- 
ing ray  absence  V  " 

He  promised  to  do  so ;  and  soon  after  this 
my  mother  lett  us. 

"  Remember,  I  hope  to  see  Miss  Penrud- 
docke,"  were  her  last  words. 
When  we  were  alone,  I  said,  — 
"  Impress  upon  Elizabeth  one  thing.    She 
is  not  to  allude  to  Beaumanoir  when  we 
meet  —  especially  before  my  mother." 

"I  suspect  that  will  be  diflicult.  It 
weighs  very  much  upon  her  mind,  I  feel 
sure." 

"  Elizabeth  hates  speechifying,  and  so  do 
I.  It  would  simply  be  odious  for  her  to 
talk  to  me  of  her  gratitude  and  my  gener- 
osity. You,  who  know  how  misplaced  such 
terms  would  be,  understand  this.  Make 
her  understand  it,  too." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Mr.  Francis,  as 
he  wished  me  good-by. 

I  bore  the  drive  to  Hampstead  well,  and 
the  aspect  of  the  old  red  brick  house  pleased 
me.  Its  slope  of  southward  garden,  where 
fruit-trees  and  flower-knots  were  delight- 
fully intermingled,  dominated  by  a  terrace 
upon  which  the  sitting-room  windows 
opened,  was  the  very  place  for  an  invalid. 
I  was  wheeled  here  every  morning,  and  lay 


for  hours  watching  the  dome  and  lesser 
towers  of  the  great  city  yonder,  rising 
from  a  sea  of  1)1  ue  or  saffron-colored  mist  — 
which  evil-minded  jjcrsons  ]>ersisted  in  call- 
ing the  London  fog.  Here  I  received  the 
friends  who  occasionally  rode  out;  but  I 
made  it  known  that  I  did  not  wish  for 
'j;eneral  visitors,  though  I  could  not  Ije  so 
churlish  as  to  deny  myself  to  the  few  who 
toiled  up  this  suburban  height  to  see  me. 
Among  those  who  most  fretjuently  did  so 
was  my  uncle. 

He  brought  me  several  messages  from  a 
person  concerning  whom,  as  she  will  not 
appear  again  in  these  pages,  I  will  here  say 
a  few  words  at  parting. 

Lady  Castle  had  written  several  times, 
while  I  was  still  in  town,  asking  if  she 
might  be  admitted  to  see  me.  I  declined'. 
JNIy  mother's  presence  would  have  sufficed 
to  lead  me  to  this  decision  (after  all  she 
had  said)  ;  but  I  had,  myself,  a  strong  re- 
pugnance to  such  an  interview.  My  seeing 
her  could  do  Lady  Castle  no  good.  I  had 
already  rendered  her  almost  the  greatest 
service  any  human  being  can  render  an- 
other, and  I  never  desired  to  look  upon  her 
again.  Her  image  would  always  be  associ- 
ated in  my  mind  with  the  darkest  passage 
in  my  life.  I  was  not  disposed  to  shift  the 
responsibility  of  what  had  come  to  pass  on 
other  shoulders  than  my  own.  I  knew  that 
my  Quixotic  vanity  of  redressing  injustice, 
uncurbed  by  a  consideration  of  whether  the 
cause  was,  in  truth,  a  worthy  one.  was 
solely  to  blame  ;  but  my  feelings  towards 
the  woman  whose  conduct  had  bi'ouglit 
about  all  this  evil  had  undergone  a  consid- 
erable change,  nevertheless.  She  was  safe, 
and  my  ])ity  had  vanished.  My  scorn  for 
her  lite  of  double-dealing  with  passion  and 
principle  had  strengthened  ibuifbld.  I  felt, 
that,  in  my  present  mood,  I  could  nut  tol- 
erate her  gratitude  :  her  smiles,  her  tears, 
her  blessings,  would  have  been  alike  insup- 
portable to  me.  I  told  my  uncle  to  make 
what  excuses  he  liked. 

"  Say  what  is  the  truth, —  that  my  nerves 
are  shattered,  and  I'm  unfit  for  ladies'  soci- 
ety. After  what  you  told  me  the  other  day 
was  the  general  belief  about  Lady  Castle 
and  me,  sh<i  is  the  last  person  I  ought  to 
see  ;  but  I  don't  want  to  see  any  one.  I'm 
too  down  in  the  mouth." 

"  Oh  !  that  will  never  do.  You  mustn't 
get  hipped.  You'll  be  all  right  again  in  a 
short  time.  I  met  your  chief  this  morning 
in  Rotten  Row.  He  told  me  you  had  six 
months'  leave,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
it  could  be  renewed,  if  you  were  not  quite 
fit  to  return  to  your  duty . " 

"  I  shall  never  be  fit,  —  that  is  the  fact. 
I  may  as  well  send  in  my  papers  at  once." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !      God  bless    my 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


151 


soul  I  because  a  young  fellow  like  you  has 
a  fall  and  breaks  a  bone  or  two,  lie  is  to 
give  up  the  service  I  Never  heard  such 
rubbii^h  !  " 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  he  always  tried 
thus  to  lau;i;h  me  out  of  my  despondency. 
I  gained  strenc^th  and  appetite,  but  I  suf- 
fered greatly  from  my  back  at  times  ;  in 
tliat  respect  I  saw  no  improvement.  The 
doctors,  however,  declared  themselves  sat- 
isfied with  my  general  progress,  and  de- 
cided that  early  in  July  I  should  go  to 
Wildbad  or  Gastein.  It  was  now  the  end 
of  INlay. 

On  the  Saturday  before-named,  Little 
spent  an  hour  with  me,  and  received  my 
instructions  as  to  the  deed  of  gift  to  Eliza- 
beth, -which  I  was  to  sign  on  the  day  I  came 
of  age. 

The  Sunday  brought  with  it  Francis, 
•who  spent  the  afternoon  with  me,  and  was 
the  bearer  of  Elizabeth's  reply  to  my  moth- 
er's invitation.  She  accepted  it  gladly ; 
and  as  Mr.  Humphrey  did  not  object  (that 
old  gentleman  was  now  almost  well,  and 
hated  to  be  considered  an  invalid),  it  was 
arranged  she  should  come  to  Hampstead 
the  following  week,  for  a  few  days.  Fran- 
cis would  bring  her,  and  return  to  Cheyne 
Walk,  so  as  not  to  leave  Ilnraphrey  quite 
alone.  Later,  when  Elizabeth  was  at  home, 
and  my  mother  had  to  go  to  Beaumanoir, 
Fi-ancis  was  to  come  and  mount  guard  over 
me. 


CHAPTER  LIL 

I  WAS  lying  on  my  chaise  longue  on  the 
terrace. 

It  was  a  real  May  morning  ;  that  "bridal 
of  the  earth  and  sky,"  which,  like  other  es- 
pousals, has  a  poetry  in  early  life  it  can 
never  know  in  maturer  days.  These  have 
their  ripe  summer  splendors,  —  it  may 
even  be  their  sober  autumn  joys,  but  the 
budding  passions  of  spring,  the  pale  swal- 
low-flecked sky,  the  pleasant  turmoil  of  the 
birds, — these  belong  to  the  'teens  of  the 
year ;  and  the  boy-and-girl  marriage  is  one 
of  intoxicating  delight. 

To  me,  however,  there  was  more  of 
sadness  tlian  of  pleasure  in  the  sense  of 
nature  awakening  everywhere  refreshed  and 
strong ;  the  sap  rising  in  each  fibre  of  the 
ivy  on  yonder  wall,  the  sycamore  leaves 
bursting  their  ])ale  sheaths,  the  under 
boughs  of  laurel,  intolerant  of  subservience, 
vigorously  thrusting  upwards  to  tlie  light 
their  first  fruits  of  tender  green. 

I  was  in  that  morbid  condition  when 
even  outward  objects,  which  at  other  times 
it  is  a  delight  to'watcli,  jar  upon  the  over- 


sensitive brain,  as  recalling,  more  or  less 
directly,  what  we  have  lost  or  suifered.  It 
was  still  the  spring-lime  of  my  life  ;  but  the 
sap  was  sharply  checked,  the  fair  promises 
of  summer  suddenly  cut  off. 

I  lay  there,  doing  nothing,  a  book  upon 
my  knee  unopened,  when  my  mother 
stej>ped  out  of  the  drawing-room  window, 
followed  by  Elizabeth.  I  had  never  seen 
the  latter  look  so  well ;  her  deep  mourning 
became  her ;  her  reddish  hair,  and  slender 
figure,  which  had  now  a  sort  of  awkward 
grace  of  its  own,  showed  to  great  advan- 
tage as  she  stood  under  a  bow  of  hawthorn 
blossoms  that  netted  her  in  a  trellis  of 
fiickering  shadow.  She  appeared  shy  ;  and 
my  mother,  like  a  protecting  divinity,  drew 
the  girl's  hand  within  her  arm  as  they  ap- 
proached. A  sight  I  had  certainly  little 
expected  to  see. 

But  while  yet  some  yards  distant,  moved 
by  a  sudden  impulse  which  broke  down 
the  rare  barrier  of  restraint  which  Lady 
Rachel's  presence  exei'cised  upon  her,  Eliz- 
abeth quickly  disengaged  her  arm,  and, 
running  up  to  my  chair,  seized  the  hand  I 
held  out.  Her  cheek  flushed  ;  her  features 
were  contracted  by  a  sharp  spasm,  more 
eloquent  than  words.  It  was  my  mother 
who  spoke,  — 

"  I  bring  you  a  visitor  I  knew  you  would 
be  glad  to  see.  I  have  been  telling  her 
how  welcome  her  visit  is  to  us  both,  0.s- 
mund." 

"  You  find  me  a  poor  broken-down  chap, 
Elizabeth.  No  '  setting-up '  drill,  now  ; 
but,  as  Joe  would  say,  '  It's  a  sight  as  is 
good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you.'  Except 
dear  old  Francis,  there's  no  one  else  I  have 
been  glad  to  see.  You'll  neither  pity  me 
nor  chaff  me,  which  is  what  one's  friends 
generally  do." 

"  I  have  not  had  much  chaff  in  me  late- 
ly," said  Elizabeth,  and  she  looked  away 
over  the  lawn ;  "  and,  as  to  pity,  I  hate  it 
myself  too  much  to  offer  it  to  you." 

"  Besides,"  said  my  mother  (and  her  ac- 
cents were  like  honey  dropped  upon  Eliza- 
beth's roughness  of  speech) — "besides, 
he  is  going  on  so  very  satisfactorily,  there 
will  soon  be  no  cause  for  pity.  His  escape 
was  really  miraculous  —  was  it  notV  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Miracles  are 
special  interventions  of  Providence,  ain't 
they?" 

"  Yes,  and  this  was  a  special  interven- 
tion of  Providence,  I  make  no  doubt  of  it, 
as  Mr.  Putney  said  in  his  letter  to  me  the 
other  day." 

I  fell  a-musing ;  and  I  suspect,  from 
those  i'liwr  blunt  words  of  my  eousin's,  that 
her  thought  (m  some  modified  form  jjcr- 
haps)  was  of  the  same  nature  as  mine. 
^Vhy  should  I  be  especially  protected,  when 


152 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


so  many  better  men  -were  permitted  to  fall 
victims  to  more  ri;j,hteous  causes  ? 

rresentiy  my  mother  asked  after  Hum- 
phrey. Eiizabetli  replied  that  she  really 
did  not,  know  how  he  was ;  never  knew, 
indeed,  uidess  he  was  actually  laid  up ;  for 
he  resented  any  in<iuiries,  and  never 
■would  ;idmit  that  any  thing  ailed  him. 

"I  should  have  been  glad  to  see  him 
here,"  was  my  mother's  gracious  commen- 
tary ;  "  but  his  antagonism  to  our  branch 
of  the  family  has,  unfortunately,  always 
been  so  great  that  intercourse  has  been 
impossible;  but  for  this,  my  dear  Eliza- 
beth, you  would  have  been  our  visitor  at 
Beaumauoir  lon^r  airo." 
.     "  You  never  asked  me." 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  never  asked  you,  be- 
cause you  were  in  Humphrey's  hands,  and 
I  knew  it  would  lie  useless.  It  would  be 
so  still,  if  Osmund  had  not  taken  an  oppo- 
site view  of  this  legal  question  to  his  poor 
brother.  I  think  him  wrong, — I  say  so 
frankly ;  but  I  also  think  it  a  great  pity 
that  such  differences,  which  ought  to  be 
left  to  the  lawyers,  should  divide  families ; 
and  that  is  why  I  am  so  especialVy  glad  to 
see  you." 

She  took  Elizabeth's  hard  hand,  which 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  rasped,  and 
enclosed  it  in  her  own  white  taper  fingers. 
The  apparent  candor  of  her  utterance 
vrould  have  carried  conviction  to  most 
minds  ;  but,  somehow  or  other  —  I  grieve 
to  say  it  —  I  found  it  difficult  to  believe  in 
this  sudden  conversion  to  a  large-minded 
view  of  the  duties  of  kinship.  "  Methinks 
the  lady  doth  protest  too  much,"  occurred 
to  me.  I  could  not  obliterate  from  my 
recollection  the  freezing  tone  in  which  my 
mother  had  always  mentioned  "  our  en- 
emies." With  every  desire  to  accept  her 
cordiality  towards  Elizabeth  as  genuine,  it 
■was  dilhcult  to  reconcile  this  with  what  I 
knew,  by  any  theory  founded  upon  a  close 
observation  of  my  mother's  character.  I 
must  seek  elsewhere  than  in  that  divine 
forgiveness  of  those  we  have  injured,  which 
is  so  much  rarer  than  the  forgiveness  of 
those  who  have  injured  us,  for  the  solution 
of  this  riddle. 

Elizabeth  remained  silent,  if  I  rightly  re- 
member, and  the  rest  of  that  triangular  con- 
versation has  left  no  impression  upon  me. 
But,  later  in  the  afternoon,  my  mother  hav- 
ing gone  in-doors,  Elizabeth  and  I  were 
alone  in  the  garden  ;  and  yet  (it  seemed  odd 
to  me  at  the  time)  for  nearly  half  an  hour 
she  did  not  come  near  me  !  She  had  brought 
out  some  bread  in  her  hand  from  luncheon, 
and  stood  meditatively  before  the  small  cir- 
cular fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn, 
flingincT  a  morsel  to  its  gold  and  silver  den- 
izerxs,  now  an'd  again,  and  then  lapsing  into 


a  dreamy  forgetfulness  of  all  present  things, 
—  at  least,  so  it  a])peared  to  me. 

At  length,  with  her  characteristic  abrupt- 
ness, she  turned,  and  walked  rajjidly  across 
the  lawn  towards  me.  Standing  a  little  be- 
hind my  chair,  so  that  I  could  not  see  her 
face,  she  said,  — 

"  Uo  you  believe  in  miracles  ?  " 

This  was  a  field  of  theolonical  contro- 
versy upon  which  T  had  never  then  entered. 
1  replied,  casuistically  enough,  — 

"  1  su]ipose  I  do  —  when  they're  in  the 
Bible.  Not  what  my  mother  calls  mir- 
acles." 

"  AVould  it  be  a  miracle  to  receive  a 
message  from  the  dead  V  " 

"  \\'ell,  it  depends,"  I  answered.  "  Some 
people  of  strong  imagination  believe  they 
see  and  hear  all  manner  of  thin'is  :  and 
then  there's  that  spirit-rapping  bosh  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  that. 
All  I  know  is,  that  I've  had  a  message,  not 
once  or  twice,  but  ever  so  many  nights  run- 
ning, from  my  dad." 

''  You've  brooded  too  long  upon  your 
father's  death,  my  dear  Elizabeth,"  I  said, 
after  a  minute's  pause.  "  Your  mind  is  a 
little  upset." 

"  No,  it  isn't.  On  the  contrarv,  it  aets 
more  fixed  every  day.  I  won't  take  this 
property,  Osmund,  —  I  hate  it." 

"  Did  Mr.  Francis  give  you  my  message  ? 
You're  to  say  nothing  upon  that  subject,  if 
vou  would  oblifre  me,  while  vou  are  here." 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  have  been  thinking 
how  I  should  get  out  what  was  on  my  mind, 
and  I  must  S])eak.  Taking  this  fortune 
from  you,  Osmund,  will  make  me  more  iiiis- 
erable  than  I  already  am.  What  do  I  care 
for  a  big  house  and  a  lot  of  servants,  and 
ever  so  many  thousands  a  year?  The 
money  in  itself  would  oppress  me,  but 
knowing  it  was  taken  from  you  would  be 
intolerable.  When  Mr.  Francis  first  told 
us,  Cousin  Humphrey's  glee,  and  the  recol- 
lection of  all  poor  dad's  anxieties  to  prove 
his  title  to  the  estate,  prevented  my  refus- 
ing it ;  but  every  week  since  then,  I  feel 
more  and  more  wretched  about  it,  and  in 
my  dreams  now  every  night  I  see  dear  dad, 
and  he  says  to  me,  '  Don't  take  it,  Liz. 
Osmund  is  a  son  to  me  —  don't  take  it ! '  " 

''  Look  here,  Elizabeth.  Supposing  a 
man  loses  a  purse  of  gold  which  he  has  no 
means  of  identit'ying,  —  legally  identifying ; 
and  that  the  man  who  saw  it  drop  from 
him  —  (number  one)  —  picks  it  up.  AVIiat 
should  you  say  of  number  two  if  he  kept  it  ? 
'  Number  one,  in  a  fit  of  generosity,'  may 
beg  him  to  do  so;  but  (if  he's  a  gentleman, 
not  a  poor  man,  of  course)  it  is  simply  im- 
possible. There  are  circumstances  you 
will  never  know,  which  make  it  doubly  my 
duty   tj   restore   that    which   is  rightfully 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


153 


yours.  "What  if  the  purse  was  not  dro|)]H'(l, 
but  niched  from  you?  "  I  added,  in  a  lower 
vaice,  —  '-perhaps  the  analogy  would  be 
more  correct.  No,  Elizabeth,  do  what  you 
like  with  it,  — give  it  all  away  in  charity  ; 
only  /  can't  take  it  back." 

'•'  Lady  Rachel  doesn't  think  as  you  do," 
she  said,  heaving  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  know  very  little  of  my  mother's 
thoughts  ;  but  you  heard  a  very  wise  senti- 
ment fall  from  her  lips  this  morning,  to  the 
eti'ect  that  business-matters  should  be  left 
to  lawyers,  and  that  the  principals  should 
never  "siieak  of  them.  Act  upon  that,  my 
dear,  or^  you'll  destroy  all  my  pleasure  in 
your  visit." 

She  said  no  more.  A  few  minutes  later, 
my  uncle  appeareil  on  the  terrace.  He  had 
ridden  down,  and  brought  with  him  all  the 
last  gossip  from  White's.  I  saw  him  scru- 
tinizing Elizabeth,  as  he  talked  ;  and  she, 
on  hei'side,  eyeil  him  as  she  would  have 
done  some  curious  animal  of  a  genus  and 
habits  heretofore  unknown  to  her.  What 
with  turf  and  drawing-rooni  slang,  covert 
allusions,  periphrases,  and  o'ther  ibrms  of 
speech  not  "  to  be  understanded  of  the  peo- 
ple," to  say  nothir.g  of  the  subject-matter  of 
di>coursc,  Elizabeth  certainly  did  not  com- 
prehend above  one  word  in  ten  of  it. 

By  and  by  my  mother  joined  us  ;  and 
she  and  her  brother  walked  up  and  down 
one  of  the  side-aTleys  for  twenty  minutes, 
or  more,  absorbed  in  conversation,  which, 
by  the  glances  cast  in  our  direction,  re- 
ferred, libit  sure,  to  either  Elizabeth  or  me. 

By  and  by,  he  came  up  to  me  again  ;  and, 
Elizabeth  having  gone  into  the  house,  we 
bad  a  few  minutes  alone,  before  he  took  his 
departure. 

'■  You've  heard  about  Hartman  Wild  ?  " 
he  said.  "  Found  no  end  of  letters  from 
different  fellows  to  his  wife,  in  her  desk. 
Going  to  sue  for  a  divorce.  They  say 
there'are  no  less  than  four  co-respondents." 

"  Is  D'Arnheim  one  of  them  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  his  wife  has  left  him  ;  but  that 
you  know,"  he  added,  with  a  laugh.  '•  I'm 
glad  to  see,  by  the  by,  that  your  mother 
has  got  over  the  shock  to  her  propriety, 
and  Uikes  a  more  lenient  view  of  the  ease, 
—  says  now  she  is  sure  all  these  women 
threw  themselves  at  your  head." 

"  I  wish  you  would  persuade  her  not  to 
talk  such  stiitf,"  said  I  testily. 

'•  She  seems  very  nnich  taken  with  this 
Elizabeth,"  said  he,  eying  me  narrowly, 
"and  it  is  lucky.  Certainly  she  is  a 
deuced  fine  girl." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  Yes.  I  observed  her  walk  just  now,  — 
straight  in  the  leg,  —  goes  like  an  arrow, — 
always  JAidge  how  a  woman  is  made  by 
that." 


"  As  to  her  walk,  I  fake  some  credit  to 
myself  for  it.  She  walked  like  a  cow  two 
years  ago.  I  put  her  on  her  mettle,  — you 
can  do  any  thing  with  her  in  that  way." 

"  Ah  !  I  have  no  doubt  if  you  took  her  in 
hand  she  would  turn  out  a  very  distiiHjuee- 
looking  woman.      Very  fetching  hair," 

"  I  can't  say  I  care  about  red  hair  my- 
self." 

"  Well,  it's  all  the  rage  now ;  and  it  goes 
with  a  good  skin.  Skin  is  a  great  thing. 
Hate  a  pasty,  unwholesome-looking  girl." 

"  Her  complexion  is  improved,  —  still 
she  is  too  red  at  times,  —  hands  espe- 
cially." 

"  Oh  1  that  will  all  come  round,  —  never 
wore  gloves  in  the  backwoods,  I  dare  say. 
It's  an  immense  pull,  by  the  way,  her  hav- 
ing neither  father  nor  motiier.  He  was  a 
rough  customer,  I  remember." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  an  im- 
mense pull,  —  it  is  a  teri'ible  mislbrtune  ! 
Think  how  desolate  she'll  be  if  old  Hum- 
phrey dies  1  " 

"  I  mean  that  it  is  an  innnense  pull  for 
any  man  who  may  think  of  marrying  her, 
not  to  be  saddled  with  that  backwoodsman, 
or  some  impossible  mother." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  she  is  not  a  girl  who 
will  marry  the  first  man  who  asks  her." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  doubt  it,"  laughed  the  col- 
onel. "  I'm  told  she  shows  capital  taste; 
but  I  can  tell  you  what,  Osmund,  there  will 
be  a  great  run  after  that  girl,  whom  you 
insist  on  making  one  of  the  biggest  heir- 
esses going,  if  you  let  her  come  into  the 
market." 

Then  were  my  eyes  opened.  I  saw  my 
mother's  little  game,  and  how  she  had  been 
priming  her  brother. 

"  I  have  no  power  to  let  or  prevent  her," 
I  said  slowly.  "  She  will  do  what  she 
chooses  with  herself  and  her  property ;  but 
I  doubt  her  ever  '  going  into  the  market,' 
as  you  call  it." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

I  HAD  now  the  clew  to  my  mother's  hith- 
erto inexplicable  conduct.  Failing  all 
other  meiuis,  a  marriage  with  Elizabeth 
would  prevent  the  alienation  of  Beauma- 
noir.  This  was  the  sole  motive  for  her 
sudden  change  of  tactics  ;  and  the  longer  I 
thought  over  it,  the  more  patent  it  became. 
I  was  amazed  that  it  should  not  have  struck 
me  sooner. 

"  A  chill  fell  upon  our  intercourse  from 
that  hour.  On  Elizal)eth's  ])art  this  may 
have  been  the  result  of  the  discussion  de- 
tailed in  the  foregoing  chapter.  By  it  she 
found  that  the  idea  she  had  hugged  in  se- 


154 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


cret,  and  had  come  resolved  to  cjirry  into 
execution,  must  tiill  to  the  jxround.  A  cer- 
tain cons^traint  was  inevitable, —  she  was 
"  shut  up."  On  my  part,  the  knowledjjje 
that  every  look  of  interest,  every  word  of 
approval,  ini^ht  be  misinterpreted  by  my 
mother,  made  me  churlishly  taciturn.  It 
angered  me  to  think,  that,  at  the  moment  I 
■was  trying  to  repair  the  wron'g  done  to  my 
cousin,  she  should  be  brouiiht  here  with 
such  a  design  as  this  I  A  marriage  was  to 
be  cooked  up,  which  should  render  my  act 
of  renunciation  virtually  of  none  effect.  I 
chafed  to  think  how  astute  old  Humphrey, 
if  he  divined  the  scheme,  might  even  now 
be  chuckling  over  what  he  would  consider 
my  false  airs  of  magnanimity.  I  had  felt 
real  pleasure  in  seeing  Elizabeth  again  ; 
and  hoped  that  my  mother  was,  from  disin- 
terested motives,  in  which  I  was  fain  to  be- 
lieve that  a  troubled  conscience  played 
some  part,  kindly  disposed  toward  my 
cousin.  There  was  an  end  to  all  that  now. 
I  had  credited  Lady  Rachel  with  feelings 
foreign  to  her  nature  ;  and  each  day  of 
Elizabeth's  stay  would  add  to  my  annoy- 
ance and  perplexity.  I  liked  and  respected 
Ler  too  much  to  permit  her  feelings  to  be 
played  upon ;  if  indeed,  as  Mr.  Francis  be- 
lieved, this  were  possible.  How  could  I 
tell  what  ideas  my  mother  miglit  not  instil 
into  the  girl's  mind  V  We  played  at  chess, 
hour  after  hour,  in  silence,  —  she  beat  me 
five  games  out  of  six,  —  and  then  I  pleaded 
fatigue,  and  lay  back  to  brood  over  my 
troubles ;  while  Elizabeth  drew  a  chair 
under  the  hawthorn,  a  little  distance  off', 
opened  a  book  upon  her  lap,  planted  her 
elbows  on  her  knees,  and  clutched  her  head 
between  her  hands,  as  in  a  vice  ;  but  the 
leaves,  I  observed  through  my  half-closed 
eyes,  were  only  turned  by  the  wind. 

There  was  yet  another  thought  connected 
with  the  matter  which  worried  me.  Was 
it  possible  that  Mr.  Francis  was  a  party  to 
this  plot  ?  —  for  so  I  must  consider  it.  I 
could  not  forget  his  earnest  desire  for  this 
marriage,  and  my  mother's  unwonted  cor- 
diality towards  the  man  whom,  but  three 
months  before,  she  had  treated  so  rudely. 
And  yet,  after  Avhat  I  had  told  him,  it 
seemed  incredible  that  he  should  lend  him- 
self to  a  scheme  the  results  of  which  could 
only  be  injurious  to  Elizabeth,  and  painful 
to  myself. 

On  the  third  day  of  her  stay,  be  paid  us 
a  visit ;    and   I   found   an   opportunity   of 
speaking  with  him  alone. 

"■  Do  you  know  what  my  mother's  object 
was  in  inviting  Elizabeth  here,  Mr.  Fran- 
cis V" 

"  I  can  make  a  shrewd  guess." 

"  She  never  told  you,  then  ?  I  was 
afraid  she  had.     I  am  horribly  annoyed. 


God  knows  what  she  mayn't  say  to  Eliza- 
beth, though  the  idea  of  marriage  con- 
nected with  me  now  is  such  a  ghastly 
joke,  I  should  think  no  one  but  a  manoeuv- 
ring mother  could  entertain  it." 

'•  On  that  point,  your  nnnd  is  in  a  morbid 
state,"  returned  Francis;  "but,  as  re- 
gards Elizabeth,  I  fully  comprehend  your 
feelings,  and  I  confess  I  hesitated  some 
time  before  countenancing  her  visit.  I  re- 
llected,  however,  that,  in  the  first  place, 
Lady  Rachel  might  be  a  valuable  friend  to 
her  hereafter,  and  it  was  unwise  to  reject 
the  hand  your  mother  held  out.  Secondly, 
that  it  might  arouse  Elizabeth,  and,  as  you 
were  so  shortly  going  abroad,  could  do  her 
no  harm.     You  understand  me  V  " 

"  It  does  harm  to  ?ne.  I  should  like  to 
be  on  the  same  terms  with  Elizabeth  we 
were  six  months  ago ;  but,  with  all  this 
confounded  plotting,  how  can  I  ?  By  the 
by,  we  had  an  animated  discussion  the  day 
she  arrived.  She  was  bent  on  giving  up 
the  property." 

"  That  does  not  surprise  me.  I  felt  sure 
that  nothing  but  the  thought  of  her  father 
would  have  prevented  her  doing  so  at  first. 
What  did  you  say?  " 

"  I  told  her,  as  nearly  as  I  could,  why  it 
was  impossible  I  could  retain  it;  and  I 
think  I  convinced  her  that  my  resolve  was 
not  to  be  shaken.  Do  you  know  if  she  has 
spoken  to  Humphrey  on  the  subject  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  he  is  too  sharp  not  to  guess 
something  of  her  feelings  about  it.  He 
said  to  me  the  other  day  suddenly,  '  The 
realization  of  our  wishes,  at  the  end  of 
years,  seldom  brings  the  satisfaction  with 
it  we  anticipate.  My  father  was  set  upon 
the  restoration  of  Beaumanoir  to  its  right- 
ful heir,  and  I  inherited  the  crotchet.  Now 
that  it  is  come  to  pass,  I  perceive  that  this 
thing  will  be  a  thorn  in  the  flesh.  Eliza- 
beth will  find  no  pleasure  in  her  patrimony, 
—  she  will  hate  it,  because  her  cousin  is 
dispossessed  ;  and  as  to  me,  sir,  if  I  have  to 
leave  my  old  home,  and  live  in  that  big 
place  with  her,  /  shall  hate  it  too.'" 

"  Does  he  suspect  any  thing  about  Eliz- 
abeth's visit  here  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  be  at  ease.  Though  be  sees 
some  design  on  Lady  Rachel's  part  (and 
nothing  would  please  him  better  than  its 
success),  he  has  small  hope  of  you.  '  I  wish 
it  could  be,'  he  said  ;  '  but,  unless  I  am  mis- 
taken, he  is  not  a  young  man  to  be  talked 
into  a  marriage,  —  especially  in  a  case  like 
this,  where  his  worldly  interests  are  so 
much  concerned.'  You  may  rest  assured, 
therefore,  that  he  holds  you  quite  blameless 
of  any  intention  to  recover  Beaumanoir  by 
making  Elizabeth  your  wife." 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  my  mother's  perti- 
nacity.   I  heard  her  say  yesterday  to  Eliza- 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


155 


beth,  '  How  charming  it  wouM  be  if  you 
could  come  abroad  with  us  !  Osmund  will 
be  so  dull  alone  with  me!'  Elizabeth 
turned  quickly  round,  and  looked  at  me ; 
but  I  pretended  not  to  hear." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mv.  Francis,  shaking  his 
head,  "  that  would  never  do.  I  should  be 
alraid  for  my  poor  child :  she  must  not  go 
abroad  with  you." 

Neither  of  us  spoke  for  some  minutes. 
At  length  1  said,  with  a  little  hesitation,  — 

"  I  have  been  thinking  that,  if  Elizabeth 
knew  the  plain  truth  about  me  and  Eve- 
lyn, —  I  mean  what  my  hopes  once  were 
about  her,  and  that  my  heart  will  never 
change,  —  there  would  be  an  end  to  all  this 
rubbish  of  my  mother's,  which  has  had  the 
etlect  of  estranging  us.  AViU  you  tell  her, 
Mr.  Francis?'' 

"  You  had  better  tell  her  yourself." 
Then  after  a  pause,  he  added,  "  I  think  it 
not  impossible  that  she  already  has  a  glim- 
mering of  it." 

"  Wha,t  makes  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  To  explain,  I  must  mention  something 
which  I  have  not  done  yet,  for  I  thought 
it  niicjht  excite  vou  too  nmch  ;  but  if  vou 
name  Miss  Hamlei'j;h  to  Elizabeth,  you 
■would  be  sure  to  hear  it  from  her.  We 
met  her  and  her  mother  at  Torquay." 

''  At  Torquay  ?  You  saw  her  at  Tor- 
quay, —  and  you  never  told  me  !  What  on 
earth  were  they  doing  there  V  " 

"  They  came  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Hawks- 
ley,  who  has  had  a  villa  there  ibr  the  win- 
ter. Mrs.  Hamleigh  found  us  out  at  once, 
and  called,  and  was  most  gracious  to  Eliza- 
beth." 

"  But  about  Evelyn  —  that  is  what  I 
■want  to  hear.  What  did  she  say  ?  Did 
you  talk  to  her  about  me  V  and  how  did  she 
look  ?  " 

"  Delicate,  and  very  sad.  I  had  one 
long  conversation  with  her,  alone.  But, 
perhaps,  it  is  as  well  that  you  should  know 
exactly  what  passed  first  between  her 
mother  and  me  when  j\Iiss  Hamleigh  was 
by.  She  began  by  saying  she  had  heard 
from  Lady  Rachel  that  morning  —  that 
she  heard  from  her  most  days — and  that 
your  mother  was  crushed  by  this  last  grief, 
which  was  rendered  so  much  worse  by  con- 
firming all  she  had  long  feared  of  your 
utter  depravity.  '  You  are  aware,'  she 
said, '  I  suppose,  that  a  Ladif  was  the  cause 
of  this  fatal  quarrel  V  But  perhaps  you 
have  not  lieard  that  his  poor  mother  found 
another y^er.sort  established  by  her  son's  l)ed- 
side  when  she  arriveil.  I  should  not  allude 
to  such  a  subject  before  Evelyn,  but  that 
she  has  a  fixed  hallucination  abut  Osmund 
—  that  his  dear  mother  and  I  have  never 
done  himjustice.  1  have  been  reluctantly 
compelled,  therefore,  to  let  her   know  the 


truth.'  I  was  sorely  grieved,  Osmund. 
I  could  not  discredit  your  mother's  testimo- 
ny ;  all  I  could  say  was  that,  loving  you  as 
I  did,  I  would  never  accept  the  worst  con- 
struction of  any  fact  that  told  against  you, 
till  I  had  asked  for  your  explanation  of  it." 

"  AVhat  a  brick  you  are,  Mr.  Francis  i 
I'll  explain  every  thing  to  you  —  but  tell 
me  first  what  Evy  said." 

"  She  did  not  open  her  lips.  She  was 
deadly  pale,  until  I  spoke  those  few  words. 
Then  she  fiurshed  up,  and  gave  me  a  look 
of  gratitude.  However,  the  day  before  we 
left  Torquay  I  was  able  to  have  some  con- 
versation with  her  alone." 

"  How  glad  I  am  !    Well,  what  passed  ?  " 

"  She  and  her  mother  called,  and  Mrs. 
Hamleigh  was  engrossed  with  Elizabeth  — 
overwhelmed  her  with  civility  ;  so  I  could 
talk  to  Miss  Hamleigh  without  interruption. 
She  said,  '  Thank  you,  for  speaking  as  you 
did  to  mamma  about  poor  Osmimd.  It  is 
so  dreadful  to  hear  the  same  thing  repeated 
day  after  day  !  I  cannot  believe  it.  After 
all  his  protestations  to  me,  it  is  impossible 
he  can  be  as  bad  as  mamma  thinks.  He 
has  been  very  weak,  I  know,  and  has  been 
led  astray  ;  but,  oh  1  dear  boy,  how  terribly 
he  has  been  punished  1  It  makes  me  so 
wretched  to  think  of  him  ! '  " 

"Did  she  say  nothing  about  ■tvriting? 
Dill  she  know  it  was  a  toss-up  whether  I 
lived  or  died  ?  " 

"  I  doubt  if  she  has  been  told  the  whole 
truth  —  probably  from  a  fear  of  exciting 
her  sym])athy  too  keenly.  She  said  her 
mother  had  gone  on  her  knees  to  implore 
her  not  to  write  to  you  ;  '  but  I  may  send 
him  a  message,'  she  added  :  '  I  am  sure  it 
cannot  be  wrong  to  do  that.  Tell  hiin, 
after  our  last  interview,  nothing  but  the 
most  positive'  proof  shall  make  me  believe 
him  false  at  heart,  as  poor  dear  mamma  is 
persuaded  he  is.  He  has  ijeen  foolish,  I, 
dare  say  —  I  will  not  think  him  culjiable  — 
at  least,  to  the  extent  they  try  to  prove. 
Mamma  says  that,  to  go  on  clinging  to  him, 
after  his  conduct,  is  to  lower  myself.  1  sup- 
pose I  have  no  dignity  — but  I  cannot  help 
it  1  '  I  promised  Miss  Hamleii^h,  that,  if  I 
learnt  any  satisfactory  explanation  of  the 
circumstances,  I  would  let  her  know." 

AVhen  I  had  told  him  as  much  of'  the  case 
as  I  could  tell  any  one  —  that  is  to  say,  of 
the  causes  that  led  to  my  encounter  with  the 
Italian  —  and  when  1  came  to  speak  of 
Madame  d'Arnheim,  I  asked,  — 

"  Did  Evelyn  refer  particularly  to  her? 
Can  you  remember  if  she  alluded  to  her  in 
any  way  ?  " 

"  She  said  something  of  a  friendship  for 
a  lady  which  you  assured  her  the  world  iiad 
entirely  misconstrued.  '  I  believed  him 
then,*  she  added,  '  and  I  will  not  disbelieve 


156 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


him  now.  IIo  would  have  made  a  promise, 
had  I  exacted  it,  iK-ver  to  yee  this  pL-rsoii 
ii;4ain.  But  my  oUl  faith  in  him  revived 
alter  nearly  three  years'  separation.  I  liad 
been  told  lie  was  quite  elian<red ;  1  did  not 
find  him  so.  lie  may  have  many,  many 
faults,  iJr.  Franeis,  but  he  does  love  me 
still  —  I  am  sure  of  it.  If  I  did  not  trust 
him,  in  spite  of  all  they  tell  me,  I  should 
never  trust  any  thinir  a;j;ain  in  this  world.' 
Those,  as  nearly  as  1  can  remember  them, 
were  her  words,  Osmund." 

'•  She  is  an  angel !  And  to  think  that  I 
may  never  see  her  again,  perhaps  ■ —  never 
be  able  to  assure  her  of  my  eonstancy  !  O 
God  !  it  is  hard." 

"  His  eliastisements  are  not  always  sent 
us  in  displeasure,  my  boy.  Bear  your  trial 
bravely,  and  it  may  turn  into  a  blessing." 

'■  A  blessing  to  be  a  cripple  for  life  !  " 

"  It  is  foolish  to  worry  yourself  about  the 
future,  my  poor  boy.  In  God's  hands  are 
the  issues.  The  present  ought  to  be 
enough  lor  us  all." 

"  More  than  enough  for  me.  But  tell 
me  what  vou  were  going  to  say  about  Eliza- 
beth?" 

"  I  said  that  she  had  some  inkling  of  the 
truth.  I  never  betrayed  her  contidence  ; 
but,  after  the  Ilamleighs  were  gone  that  day, 
she  said,  to  me,  '  You  were  talking  to  that 
girl  about  Osmund  —  I  heard  his  name 
twice  —  what  did  she  say  V  '  I  told  her 
that  Miss  Hamleigh  was  much  distressed  at 
all  the  reports  current  as  to  the  cause  of 
your  terrible  catastrophe.  She  answered 
characteristically,  '  What  does  the  cause 
signify?  He  is  lying  dreadfully  hurt,  and 
I  can  think  of  nothing  but  that.  Yet  this 
gh'l  is  fond  of  him — I  could  tell  that  by 
her  face.'  Elizabeth  has  returned  to  the 
subject  more  than  once.  That  is  why  I 
think  you  will  find  her,  in  a  measure,  pre- 
pared tor  what  you  ted  her." 

'•  Very  well,"  I  said,  as  I  leant  back  with 
a  heavy  sigh.  '•  She  shall  know  what  my 
hopes  were  up  to  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  that 
I  shall  never  care  for  any  one  but  Evelyn 
Hamleigh,  though  I  should  live  on  as  a  crip- 
ple for  the  next  llfty  }'ears.  It  is  no  use,  Mr. 
Francis,"  I  continued,  as  I  saw  his  gentle, 
reproving  smile  ;  "  neither  the  doctors  nor 
you  can  shake  my  own  horrible  conviction 
that  I  shall  never  be  better." 

Then  his  smile  faded  away,  and  he  looked 
almost  stern. 

"  So  you  fret  and  exhaust  yourself  by 
dwelling  upon  that  whicli,  according  to  you, 
is  inevitable  —  is  God's  decree  ?  Osmund, 
1  am  ashamed  of  you  !  This  iifitation  is 
hurtful  to  you,  both  mentally  and  physically. 
Y'^ou  say  you  do  not  trust  the  doctors  — 
that  they  purposely  mislead  you.  Ah  !  my 
son,  would  that  I  could  induce  you  to  turn 


to  that  heavenly  Physician,  whose  prom- 
ises never  deceive,  and  who  would  send 
down  to  your  heart  a  peace  which  is  not  of 
this  world  1 " 

•  •  •  ■  •  ■  • 

He  talked  to  me  lor  nearly  an  hour  long- 
t'r.  I  do  not  repeat  any  portion  of  the 
remainder  of  that  conversation,  for  it 
would  be  out  of  place  here  ;  but  every  word 
of  it  is  engraved  in  my  memory.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  a  new  jjhase  in  my  inner  life. 
Followed  up,  as  it  was,  by  many  similar 
discussions,  when  Mr.  Francis  and  I  were 
alone  in  the  house  together  the  following 
week,  it  produced  an  im[)ression  the  results 
of  which  will  be  apparent  by  and  by. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

Elizabrth  and  I  were  alone  ;  the  chess- 
boaril  stood  between  us;  she  had  just 
beaten  me. 

"  You  have  a  faculty  I  shall  never  pos- 
sess, Elizabeth.  I  can  make  plans  lor  my- 
self, down  to  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion, but  I  seldom  detect  my  adversary's 
game.  Do  you  see  ahead  in  this  clear  way 
in  real  life?" 

She  looked  up  sharply  into  my  face. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I've  no 
adversaries  to  detect." 

'  Ah  I  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  I  replied, 
thinking  how  much  I  could  enlighten  her  if 
I  chose.  "  But  sometimes  the  designs  of 
those  who  act,  as  they  consider,  for  our 
benefit,  we  would  bafHe,  if  we  suspected 
them." 

Elizabeth  said  nothing.  She  began  put- 
ting the  pieces  away  into  their  box. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  something  V  "  I  con- 
tinued. "  My  mother  and  I  have  been 
playing  such  a  game  of  chess  for  the  last 
year,  and  I  never  foresee  her  moves." 

"  So  1  should  think,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  Her  object  in  the  game  has  been  to 
separate  me  from  the  person  I  love  best 
on  earth,  because  that  person  is  poor." 

The  girl's  face  grew  deadly  pale,  but  she 
did  not  speak  nor  look  up  :  she  went  on 
mechanically  placing  the  pawn  in  the  box. 

"  Her  first  move  was  to  prevent  our  cor- 
responding. She  and  the  mother  of —  this 
person  "  — 

"  Miss  Hamleiffh  —  go  on." 

"  Y'es  :  Miss  Ilandeigh's  mother  and 
mine  are  most  intimate ;  and,  as  I  was 
poor,  the  views  of  the  two  mothers  were 
the  same.  Evelyn  was  forbidden  to  write 
to  me  ;  I  was  not  allowed  to  see  her ;  and 
my  letters  were  intercepted.  After  this, 
every  sort  of  story  that  could  be  raked  up 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


157 


about  me,  to  prove  that  I  was?  inconstant  to 
Lur,  was  repeated  to  Evelyn." 

"  That  couldn't  do  much  harm,"  said 
Elizabeth  quickly.  "  Who  would  believe 
any  thin'^  of  a  person  she  loved,  that  was 
told  behind  his  back  V  " 

"  Well,  my  cousin  had  not  seen  me  for  a 
long  time  ;  she  was  a  child  when  we  parted  ; 
there  was  every  excuse  for  her  believing 
what  both  our  mothers  told  lier.  I  had 
always  been  spoken  of  as  a  scapegrace, 
after  I  had  run  away  from  home ;  and  the 
reports  of  my  '  goings-on  '  in  Lomlon,  and 
of  my  liaving  forgotten  her,  must  liave 
seemed  half  confirmed  by  my  never  re- 
turning to  Beaumanoir,  whei'e  tlie  Ham- 
leiglis  constantly  were.  You  must  re- 
member all  this  before  you  blame  her." 

"  And  why  did  you  never  return  to  Beau- 
manoir V  " 

Elizabeth  liere  raised  her  eyes  to  mine. 

"  Tiiat  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you.  It 
has  nothing  to  do  with  this.  Nor  can  I  en- 
ter at  length  into  all  my  mother's  subse- 
quent plots.  I  have  never  been  sharp 
enough  to  detect  them  until  they  have  done 
me  miscliief,  —  that  is,  looking  at  tiie  case 
from  my  point  of  view  :  slie  believes,  no 
doubt,  that  all  she  does  is  for  my  welfare. 
Her  last  move  lias  been  to  let  Evelyn  know 
the  scandalous  stories  that  are  told  about 
this  atfair.  One  would  think  it  was  enough 
to  be  hali'killed,without  being  traduced  ;  but 
no  :  we  must  be  separated,  at  all  hazards." 

"  But  she  can't  be  so  —  she  doesn't  be- 
lieve them  ?  "  asked  Ehzabeth  vehemently. 

"  She  does  not  believe  them.  As  regards 
that,  I  know  now  that  they  might  spare 
themselves  the  trouble.  She  will  never 
give  me  up ;  she  will  never  marry  another 
man,  until  I  myself  release  her.  But  fate, 
you  see,  though  it  does  not  smile  upon  my 
mother's  I'-ame,  seems  bent  on  favoring  Mrs. 
Hamleigh." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 
The  board  was  cleared  now,  and  her  fingers 
were  knotting;  themselves,  with  feverish  rest- 
lessness,  in  her  lap. 

'•  I  mean,  that  a  poor  maimed  devil  as  1 
am,  Elizabeth,  has  no  right  to  think  of 
marriage.  The  hope  of  ever  being  better 
grows  lainter  every  day.  You  look  liorri- 
lied,  my  dear.  Yes,  I  know  they  don't  say 
so :  thi;y  all  tell  me  it  is  a  morbid  tivncy. 
You  will  see  if  it  turns  out  so." 

"  Of  course  s^ie  will  stick  to  you,  whether 
you  are  ill  or  well,"  said  Elizabeth,  in  a 
choky  voice,  with  averted  face. 

"  Ah  I  if  I  get  no  better,  and  see  that  I 
ouglit  to  give  her  up — God  knows  what 
the  sacrifice  will  be  to  me  1  —  but  I  will 
not  ruin  her  young  life,  —  1  shall  tell  her 
she  must  marry.  1  won't  be  a  dog  in  the 
mauiier." 


"  Fancy  giving  any  one  up  one  loved,  be- 
cause lie  was  ill!  I  shouldn't  think  much 
of  her  if  she  did  so  I  "  cried  the  girl  scorn- 
fully ;  but  I  heard  how  dillicult  it  was  to 
steady  her  voice,  as  she  went  on  :  "  Do 
you  think  when  a  girl  loves  —  7'eallt/  loves, 
—  she  can  be  shunted  on  to  any  other  line, 
just  for  the  sake  of  being  married  ?  Why 
should  she  marry  V  Isn't  it  better  to  die  an 
old  maid  than  marry  without  love  ?  It  Miss 
Hamleigh  is  —  what  you  think  she  is,  she'll 
wait  and  wait,  until  you're  both  old  ;  and 
then  she'll  come  and  nurse  you  —  she  will 
never  give  you  up." 

"  I  shall  never  give  her  up,  —  in  my  heart, 
I  mean,  —  though  I  may  renounce  all  claim 
to  her  hand.  As  to  living  on  like  this  till  I 
am  old,  I  pray  to  God  that  I  may  die  to- 
morrow, sooner  than  that!  " 

"  There  are  worse  lots  than  dying  youni-," 
said  Elizabeth.  "  Living  uncared  lor  is  one. 
I  know  I  wish  /  were  dead  I  " 

'"Good  gracious  !  With  health,  strength, 
every  capacity  for  enjoyment,  at  the  outset 
of  your  life,  how  can  you  say  that  V  —  how 
can  you  say  you  are  uncared  tor  'r' '" 

"  It  all  seems  very  cold  to  me  after  — 
after  dad's  love." 

"  Wait.  Depend  on  it,  in  time  you  will 
find  a  love  that  is  not  cold.  You  will 
marry,  and  be  a  very  happy  woman,  I 
predict." 

"  I  shall  never  marry." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  so  confidently  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  enough  of  the  faculty 
you  spoke  of  just  now  to  know  that  I  shall 
never  be  loved  —  as  /  understand  love  — 
for  myself." 

"  Nonsense  I  Y^ou'll  see  by  and  by  how 
mistaken  you  are." 

'•  No  man  loves  the  sort  of  half-boy  girl  I 
am  ;  but  as  I'm  to  be  rich,  —  you  insist  on 
my  having  this  oflious  property,  —  Cousin 
Humphrey  is  always  telling  me  I  shall  have 
no  lack  of  suitors.  He  needn't  be  afraid.  I 
won't  marry  at  all." 

"  And  what  shall  you  do,  then  ?  "  said  I, 
with  a  forced  smile  ;  for  I  felt,  in  truth,  very 
sad  for  the  jjoor  child.  "  iieign  at  Beau- 
manoir as  a  virgin  queen,  like  your  great 
namesake,  and  take  to  hunting  and  shoot- 
ing V  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  couldn't  stand  the  monotony  of  such  a 
life  for  long — alone,  linQun.  When  Hum- 
phrey dies,  perhaps  —  perhaps  I  shall  go  off 
and  wander." 

'•  You  can't  do  that  alone  at  your  age." 

"  Why  not  V  "  she  said  simply.  "  I  sup- 
pose with  money  enough  I  can  go  where  I 
choose.  However,  I  hope  Mr.  Fi'ancis  will 
always  live  with  me." 

"  Well,"  I  began,  somewhat  staggered ; 
and  then,  refiecting  that  it  was  useless  to 


158 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


discuss  conventional  proj)rieties  with  her,  I 
added,  "  Siillieieut  unto  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof.  Old  lluuiplirey  will  outlive  us  all 
yet." 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh.  "  lie 
cares  about  life,  —  he  has  the  funds  to 
wateh.     It  is  better  than  nothing." 

'•  Nothing  !  Why,  you  know  how  fond 
he  is  of  you.  It  is  because  all  his  Ibrtiuie 
is  for  you  that  he  watches  the  funds  widi 
such  interest,  I  feel  sure." 

"  Whi  think  so?  You're  wrong.  Not 
that  he  isn't  fond  of  me,  —  I  don't  mean 
that.  I  know  what  I  mean.  I  understand 
Huniphrev,  and  he  understands  me." 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  /  do,  Elizabeth." 

"  No  :  I  never  thought  you  did." 

"  But  we  shall  always  remain  fast  friends, 
■whether  wo  understand  each  other  or  not, 
sha'ii't  we  ?  "  I  said,  after  an  awkward  little 
pause.  "  We  may  not  meet,  perhaps,  for 
ever  so  long,  but  that  will  make  no  dill'er- 
ence,  I  hojie.  You'll  write  to  me,  Eliza- 
beth V  " 

"  I  can't  write  beautiful  letters  about 
nothing.  What  is  tliere  I  could  write 
about  that  you  would  care  to  hear  ?  " 

"  Every  thing.  All  that  concerns  you 
will  interest  me,  depend  on  it.  With  two 
such  far  wiser  heads  than  mine  near  you, 
it  isn't  likely  you  should  want  my  advice. 
Still,  there  are  matters  about  the  estate, 
and  so  on,  in  which  I  might  be  of  some 
use.  Promise  to  write  to  me  constantly 
while  I  am  abroad  V  " 

I  had  not  heard  my  mother  enter  the 
room  through  the  folding-doors  at  my 
back  ;  and  it  was  not  until  I  saw  Elizabeth 
look  up,  that  I  turned  my  head,  and  beheld 
the  beautiful  face  smiling  benignly  upon  us 
at  my  elbow. 

"  I  am  sure  Elizabeth  will  not  be  so  cruel 
as  to  rei'use  you,  Osmund  ;  but  what  I  am 
hoping  is  that  Humphrey  will  spare  her  to 
go  abroad  witli  us  for  a  short  time,  or,  if  not 
now,  to  join  us  in  the  autumn.  It  would 
be  so  nice." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  it  at  all,"  said  Eliza- 
beth, rising  bruskly.  "  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  Lady  Rachel,"  she  added, 
coloring  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  ami  sensi- 
ble that  she  should  modity  this  rejection  ; 
"  but  I  couldn't  leave  Cousin  Humphrey, 
even  if  he  wished  it." 

My  mother's  inuuutability  was  for  once 
disturbed.  Her  face  betrayed,  to  my  eyes 
at  least,  her  vexation  and  her  surprise. 

Elizabeth  returned  to  Cheyne  Walk  the 
following  day.  My  mother  made  an  effort 
to  keep  her  longer ;  but  my  cousin  was  res- 
olute to  go,  although  befure  our  last  con- 
versation she  had  certainly  entertained  the 
idea  of  asking  Humi)hrey  to  let  her  remain 
with  us  another  week.     Francis,  however, 


wrote  to  say  that  the  old  gentleman  was 
by  no  means  well,  and  she  seized  upon  this 
prete.vt  for  holding  to  the  limit  originally 
fixed  for  her  stay. 

Olu'  parting  was  common-place  enough 
to  the  outward  observer.  Elizabeth  was 
like  a  little  rock.  I  was  really  sorry  to  say 
good-by  to  her,  and  was,  moreover,  in  that 
condition  of  mind  when  partings  are 
fraught  with  forebodings  of  evil,  — forebod- 
ings which  we  snule  or  shudder  over  long 
afterwards,  according  as  they  are  realized 
or  not ;  but  my  mother's  presence  checked 
much  demonstration  of  what  I  felt,  though, 
even  thus,  I  was  more  visibly  moved  than 
my  cousin.  Her  face  looked  as  it  had  done 
during  her  father's  last  illness,  rigid,  and 
aluiost  green,  —  the  effect  produced  upon 
that  sort  of  skin  by  sleepless  nights,  or  any 
strong  and  prolonged  emotion.  She  came 
into  the  room  at  the  last  moment,  the  car- 
riage waiting  at  the  door,  and  walked  up 
to  my  sola. 

"  God  bless  you,  Elizabeth !  "  I  said, 
holding  out  my  hand.  "  Now  mind  you 
write.'' 

She  grasped  my  hand  tightly  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  dropped  it,  without  a  word. 

My  mother  came  forward,  and  stooped 
to  kiss  her. 

'•  I  am  very  sorry  —  we  are  both  truly 
sorry  to  lose  you,  my  dear.  I  hope,  at  no 
distant  time,  this  renewal  of  our  family  ties 
may  be  "  — 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kindness,"  said  Elizabeth  ra[)idly.  "  Good- 
by."  And,  without  another  word,  —  with- 
out waiting  tor  my  mother's  I'cjoinder,  — 
she  huriied  from  the  room. 

"  Well,  she  certainly  is  an  odd  girl," 
murmured  my  mother,  as  the  door  closed  ; 
and  a  slight  ilush  of  annoyance  mounted  to 
her  cheek.  "  DilKcult  to  make  any  impres- 
sion upon." 

The  week  following,  my  mother  went  to 
Beaumanoir,  and  Mr.  Francis  came  to  stay 
with  me  lor  a  fortnight.  It  was  a  delii-lit- 
ful  episode  in  that  melancholy  time.  He 
drew  me  upwards  in  conversation  to  higher 
and  worthier  subjects  of  reflection  than 
those  I  was  unhappily  too  jirone  to  indulge 
in.  I  forgot,  for  the  moment,  my  physical 
ailments,  in  discussion  upon  some  of  those 
deep  mysteries  of  our  being  which  every 
thinking  mind  must,  at  times,  crave  to  sat- 
isfy. Up  to  this  period  of  my  life,  when- 
ever such  dilliculties  had  crossed  my 
thoughts,  I  had  put  them  away,  as  matters 
beyond  my  ken,  which  it  could  profit  me 
nothing  to  in(juire  too  curiously  into.  My 
religion  was  positively  but  little  elevated 
above  that  of  Tennyson's  "  Northern  Farm- 
er ;  "  sleepy  assent    and    indill'erence    had 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


159 


clinractcrlzcfl  my  tlicology  from  the  days 
(if  Mr.  Putney's  teaching  until  now.  Mr. 
Francis,  durin;^  all  tlie  years  he  had  been 
at  Beauinanoir,  had  been  careful  never  to 
distui-b  tills  state  of  thin5;s.  It  had  been 
in  the  bond  that  all  polemics  were  to  be 
riirorously  avoiiled,  and  he  was  far  too  con- 
scientious to  infringe  the  rule  ;  but  now 
he  was  on  another  footing,  and  I,  instead 
of  a  boy,  was  a  man,  suffering  in  body,  mis- 
eralile  in  nund,  of  wavering,  unhopeful 
i'aith.  I  will  not  afSrm  that  he  came  re- 
solved to  convert  me  to  his  own  church,  if 
possible j  but,  that  he  held  himself  more 
than  justified  in  arousing  my  interest  in  the 
question,  and  leailing  me  to  seek  what  lie 
considered  the  truth,  I  believe ;  and  I 
have  nevei'  ceased  to  feel  grateful  to  him 
for  it.  When  he  reads  these  lines,  I  hope 
he  will  understand  that  I  never,  for  an  in- 
stant, confounded  a  character  I  reverence 
so  deeply  wit^h  that  of  the  insidious  Jesuit 
of  fiction  (or  fact,  may  be,  for  aught  I 
know),  who  goeth  about  seeking  whom  he 
may  theologically  devour.  To  whatever 
doubt  and  distress  my  mind  was  subjected 
after  this  time,  it  still  was,  at  all  events, 
preferable,  as  I  now  think,  to  the  passive 
materialism  from  which  Mr.  Francis  had 
awakened  me. 

It  was  during  those  days  that  I  attained 
my  majority,  that  the  lawyers  came  down 
to  Hampstead,  and  that  I  duly  signed  the 
deeds  conveying  away  the  whole  of  the 
Beaumanolr  property  to  Elizabeth  Penrud- 
docke.  The  small  Lincolnshire  estate, 
added  to  what  I  already  possessed,  would 
yield  me  an  income  of  eleven  hundred  a 
year. 

IMy  mother  and  I  left  England  for  AVies- 
baden  the  beginning  of  July. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Of  the  six  months  following  I  have  but 
little  to  relate.  Two  letters  of  Mr.  Fran- 
cis's will  show  the  condition  of  things  as 
regarded  myself  and  others  :  I  need  trouljle 
the  reader  with  no  more.  I  had  heard  con- 
stantly from  him,  and  twice  from  Elizabeth, 
when  I  r(.'ceiv(  d  the  following  at  Geneva, 
in  the  last  week  of  September  :  — 

"BEAUMANOin. 

"My  dear  Osmund,  —  Your  letter  fiom 
Munich,  received  three  days  ago,  has  trou- 
bled me  much.  I  have  thought  of  little 
else  ever  since.  First,  as  to  your  health : 
it  is  a  sore  disappointment  to  find  that 
Wiesbaden  has  done,  as  yet,  nothing  for 
you  ;  but  I  am  told  the  benefit  of  such  baths 
only  becomes  apparent,  very  often,  many 


weeks  after  '  the  course '  is  ended,  and  I 
trust  the  warm  yet  bracing  air  of  Nice  will 
bring  to  maturity  the  good  seed  that  Wies- 
baden may  have  sown.  At  all  events,  let 
me  entreat  you  earnestly  to  allow  neither 
patience  nor  hope  to  abandon  you.  The 
tone  of  your  letter  grieves  me  more  than 
all  —  it  is  so  desponflini^  ;  yet,  here  and 
there,  I  think  I  see  indications  that  your 
soul,  under  its  heavy  trial,  is  beginnimj  to 
look  beyond  this  world  for  comibrt.  May 
it  indeed  be  so  !  May  your  steps  be 
guided,  if  towards  our  holy  Church,  how 
joyful  I  shall  be  I — if  not  —  if  towards 
some  other  door  of  Cod's  opening  —  I  shall 
know  it  is  equally  his  doing.  I  am  not 
bigoted  ;  I  would  ap|)ly  the  Pagan's  line 
to  this  Christian  need  — 

'  Rem  .  .  .  quocunque  modo  rem.' 

"  You  will  expect  to  hear  something  about 
us;  but,  in  truth,  I  have  little  to  tell.  We 
have  now  been  here  two  months,  and  our 
life  continues  to  be  very  much  what  it  was 
after  the  first  two  days.  Every  neighbor 
within  fifteen  miles  has  called,  and  not  one 
has  been  admitted.  Whatever  the  weather 
is,  Elizabeth  rides  for  some  hours  daily, 
The  farm,  the  stables,  the  dogs,  are  her 
chief  interests.  She  does  not  care  much 
about  the  garden,  except  that  little  grubby 
corner  that  was  called  }'ours  as  a  child,  and 
which  she  chooses  that  no  one  should  work 
in  but  herself.  She  promises  to  be  a  capital 
woman  of  business,  and  has  mastered  all  the 
details  of  this  estate  in  a  manner  which 
has  gratified  j\Ir.  Humphrey  beyond  meas- 
ure. She  is  not  satisfied  with  a  superficial 
knowledge  of  any  thing ;  she  goes  through 
the  bailill's  accounts  with  Mr.  Humphrey, 
and  asks  cpiestions  which  he  and  I  are 
sometimes  unable  to  answer.  Altogether, 
the  removal  here  has  had  a  healthy  efiect 
on  her.  I  do  not  say  that  she  is  happy, 
but  she  is  roused.  Her  mind  has  active 
emplo\ment  for  the  present ;  and  those  fits 
of  moodiness  which  threatened  to  become 
chronic  are  now  rare. 

"  I  am  not  easy  about  Mr.  Humphrey. 
He  is  more  tetchy  than  ever  as  to  inquiries 
touching  his  health,  but  I  tear  he  is  far 
fi-om  well.  His  feelings  about  Beaumanoir 
are  of  a  mixed  nature;  he  derives  a  curious 
satisfaction  from  the  realization  of  the 
idea  which  was  paramount  in  his  mind  for 
so  many  years  ;  but  he  hati's  the  country, 
and  pines  for  London,  and  all  the  busy 
money-getting  interests  of  his  past  life.  He 
does  not  know  wheat  from  barley,  or  a 
goose  from  a  gander,  to  Elizalieth's  infinite 
amusement ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  daily 
papers,  and  for  the  accounts  connected 
with   this   property,  which   he   audits,  he 


IGO 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


would  be  misornble.  He  objects  to  per- 
sonal contact  with  visitors  as  much  as  VA'v/.- 
abeth  does,  and  yet  I  am  sure  be  would 
feel  annoyed  if  they  did  not  call.  He 
shrugs  his  shoulders  wdien  he  see  a  carriage 
drive  up  to  leave  cards,  and  says,  '  Yes, 
my  good  lady,  you  have  a  son  looking  out 
for  a  girl  witli  money  ;  but  you  are  not  go- 
ing to  drop  salt  on  Elizabeth's  tail.'  I  ob- 
serve, however,  in  spite  of  these  sarcasms, 
that  he  is  very  punctilious  in  the  due 
returning  of  cards,  from  which  I  gather 
that  he  is  not  altogether  so  indifferent  to 
these  acts  of  courtesy  as  he  would  have  us 
believe. 

"  Elizabeth  is  writing  to  Lady  Rachel,  in 
reply  to  her  second  invitation  to  join  your 
mother  and  you.  You  know  what  the  sul)- 
stance  of  that  reply  will  again  be.  To 
frame  it  in  suitable  words  is  not  an  easy 
task  to  Elizabeth.  Clever  as  she  is  in 
many  ways,  the  facility  of  expressing  her- 
self on  paper,  has  been  denied  to  her.  I 
say  this,  as  you  complain  of  the  '  two  bald 
and  frigid  epistles '  she  has  sent  you." 

I  continued  to  hear  from  INIr.  Francis 
constantly  that  autumn,  during  which  I 
remained  in  the  same  state.  The  tedious 
journey  to  Nice  was  accomplished,  and  we 
were  settled  in  the  Villa  Lyon.  I  lay 
basking  in  the  Southern  sun  for  some  hours 
every  day,  and  life  looked  to  me  like  a 
beautiful  dream  of  cloudless  sky  and  tide- 
less  sea  ;  but  I  grew  no  better.  Weary  — 
weary  of  every  thing.  As  Joe  held  the 
glass  for  me  to  shave,  and  I  looked  at  my 
own  face,  I  read  the  chanc!:e  in  myself 
there  ;  and  still  they  cried,  '•  Peace,  peace," 
when  tiiere  was  no  peace. 

In  December  I  was  shocked  to  hoar  of 
Mr.  Humphrey's  demise.  He  was  found 
dead  in  his  bed  one  morning  at  Beauma- 
noir.  A  week  after  the  news  reached  me, 
I  received  a  second  letter,  from  which  the 
following  is  an  extract :  — 

"I  have  now  to  tell  that  which  will 
cause  you  some  surprise.  Immediately 
after  the  funeral,  the  will  was  oj)ened  and 
read.  By  a  codicil  dated  last  June,  the 
substance  of  that  will,  which  had  devised 
all  Mr.  Humphrey's  jiroperty  to  Elizabeth, 
is  cancelled,  and  the  main  portion  lell  to 
you.     I  quote  the  exact  words  :  — 

•'  'In  consideration  of  the  magnanimous 
surrender  of  the  great  Penruddocke  estates, 
by  Osmund  Penruddocke,  to  his  Cousin 
Elizabeth  (their  rightful  owner  in  the 
sight  of  God),  I  hereby,  and  with  the 
knowledge  and  approval  of  the  said  Eliza- 
beth, revoke  the  above  provisions  of  my 
will  made  in  her  favor,  with  the  exception 
of  my  plate,  furniture,  and  books,  which  I 


give  to  the  said  Elizabeth,  as  a  memento; 
and  I  bequeath  all  my  property  in  the 
funds,  and  of  whatsoever  other  description, 
to  Osmund  Penruddocke,  son  of  the  late 
John  Penruddocke  of  Beaumanoir.' 

"  He  then  leaves  some  legacies  to  his 
servants  and  to  me.  On  a  rough  calcula- 
tion, the  lawyer  tells  me  the  funded  pro- 
perty amounts  to  about  twenty-three 
thousand  pounds.  Elizabeth  says  you  will 
remember  an  observation  about  Mr.  Hum- 
phrey you  made  to  her  in  June.  She  knew 
at  that  time  of  his  intention  ;  and,  <as  soon 
as  the  title-deed  transferring  the  Beauma- 
noir estate  to  her  was  signed  by  you,  he 
wrote  this  codicil  in  her  presence. 

"  She  feels  the  old  man's  death  very 
min'h  ;  and  the  question  which  presses  on 
me,  far  more  than  on  her,  is.  What  is  she 
to  do  now  ?  She  is  so  peculiar,  that  it  will 
not  be  easy  to  find  a  lady-companion  to 
suit  her;  without  one,  I  cannot  retnain 
with  her,  as  she  wishes.  This  difficulty, 
however,  has  been  temporarily  removed  by 
Mrs.  Haudeigh's  offering  to  come  and  stay 
with  Elizabeth,  as  soon  as  she  heard  of 
Mr.  Humphrey's  death.  Elizabeth  was  for 
declining  at  once  ;  but  I  persuaded  her  at 
last  to  yield,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Hamleigh 
arrived  yesterday,  just  before  the  funeral. 
(The  second  time  within  twelve  months 
that  they  have  come  to  this  house  under 
similar  circumstances  !)  Mrs.  Hamleigh 
was  not  so  much  as  named  in  her  cousin's 
will,  a  fact  which,  I  fear,  surprised  her 
more  than  it  did  me. 

"  I  have  had  no  opportunity  for  private 
conversation  with  ]\Iis3  Hamleigh.  She  is 
looking  very  beautiful,  but  sail,  and  is  more 
distant  with  Elizabeth  than  I  could  wish. 
It  would  be  a  great  advantage  to  the  latter 
if  the  cousins  became  friends ;  but  Eliza- 
beth, who  is  shy  with  all  strangers,  seems 
espec;ially  ill  at  ease  with  Miss  H.  She 
feels,  moreover,  that  neither  of  these  ladies 
can  enter  into  her  heartfelt  mourning  for 
her  old  guardian.  For  my  part,  I  am 
most  grateful  to  Mrs.  Hamleigh  for  coming. 
It  relieves  me  of  an  awkwanl  responsibility; 
and,  before  her  departure,  I  trust  that  some 
suitable  lady  may  be  found  as  E.'s  compan- 
ion. The  bare  suggestion  of  my  leaving 
her  causes  the  poor  child  such  dismay,  that, 
after  much  deliberation,  I  have  resolved  to 
remain  with  her,  in  the  curious  position  of 
half  tutor,  half  self-appointe(l  ojuardian;  for 
I  fiicl  that  I  am  of  more  real  service  now, 
perhaps,  than  I  was  when  I  came  to  super- 
intend her  stuilies  in  her  father's  and  Mr. 
Humphrey's  lifetime.  She  has  no  one  to 
look  to  but  me.  J] ndar  olher  circumstances, 
it  would  be  natural  that  she  should  accept 
Lady  Rachel's  pressing  invitation  ;  but  you 
will  understand  whv  neither  I  nor  Elizabeth 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


161 


would  entertain  this  idea.  To  her  it  would 
be  the  re-openinsj  ol'a  wound  wliich  I  trust 
is  healinj;,  or  will  heal  with  time ;  and  I, 
with  my  dear  pupil's  interests  so  deeply  at 
heart,  coulil  never  countenance  it.  As  to 
her  only  other  rehitions,  the  Hamleii^lis,  I 
have  said  enoup;h  to  show  that  Elizabeth 
would  never  endure  livinjj  permanently 
with  them.  I  can  see  that  Mrs.  lIamleio;h's 
smile,  her  trick  of  repeating  your  last  word, 
—  every  thinjij  about  her,  irritates  E.  Mr. 
Humphrey  once  called  her  '  the  crocodile,' 
and  E.  never  speaks  of  her  now  but  by 
this  name.  She  has  twice  asked  how  lonLi; 
I  think  the  H.'s  will  stay,  and  expresses  a 
desire  t<5  leave  Beaumanoir  herseiti  and 
travel  abroad.  '  Not  in  the  beaten  track, 
however,'  she  always  adds.  If  this  restless- 
ness incre;ises,  it  may  be  best  to  yield  to  it. 
God  sees  what  is  for  the  child's  good,  and 
will  guide  us,  I  know.'  " 

The  news  of  my  unexpected  inheritance 
greatly  elated  my  mother.  She  said  very 
little,  it  is  true,  and  that  little  was  cast  in  a 
conventional  mould  ;  but  there  was  a  flavor 
of  reticent,  well-ordered  satisfaction  which 
pervaded  her  whole  being,  when  she  ob- 
served, that,  for  her  part,  she  had  always 
maintained  there  was  a  fund  of  goodness 
under  jioor  Humphrey's  rough  manner  ;  she 
hoped,  indeed  she  Iiad  no  doubt,  that  his 
end  was  peace.  She  wished  he  had  left 
somethinq  to  dear  Belinda  ;  but  she  was 
thankful  to  learn  that,  unbiassed  by  petty 
jealousy,  or  un-Christian-like  resentment, 
she  was  fulfilling  the  pious  task  of  comfort- 
ing poor  Elizabeth.  (I  need  not  say  that  I 
only  culled  the  facts  from,  and  did  not  read, 
the  text  of  Francis's  letter.) 

To  me  this  accession  of  fortune,  alas  !  was 
a  matter  of  indifference.  There  was  no 
merit  in  this  ;  for,  had  I  felt  the  very  small- 
est amendment  in  my  condition,  the  remov- 
al of  one  important  obstacle  to  my  union 
with  Evelyn  would  have  driven  me  nearly 
wild  with  joy.  With  twelve  hundred  a 
year,  in  addition  to  what  I  already  pos- 
sessed, my  mother  could  no  longer  persist 
in  speaking  of  me  as  "  a  pauper."  Nine 
months  since  I  should  have  hailed  this  as 
an  unlooked-for  windfall,  as  nothing  short 
of  providential.  But  Providence  had  now 
declared  a'^ainst  me.  Day  aiter  day,  which 
saw  no  abatement  of  my  sufferings,  was 
killing  by  inches  the  little  hope  that  re- 
mained in  me,  till  at  last  I  put  a  violent  end 
to  it.     And  this  was  how  it  happened. 

On  the  first  of  January,  the  German 
doctor  who  had  been  attending  me  since 
my  arrival,  found  me  alone.  He  had  a 
reputation  for  insight  and  skill,  l)ut  bis  out- 
spoken frankness  was  said  to  have  militat- 
ed against  greater  success  in  his  career.  A 
u 


soft  answer  turneth  away,  not  only  wrath, 
but  many  a  nervous  disorder.  Feeble  and 
weakly-minded  patients  were  kept  aloof 
from  Dr.  Hensel  by  reason  of  his  proverbial 
fearlessness  of  utterance.  As  I  had,  almost 
always  seen  him,  hitherto,  in  my  mother's 
presence,  and,  on  the  rare  occasions  when 
I  had  been  alone  with  him,  had  felt  too  lan- 
guid to  do  more  than  reply  to  his  interrog- 
atory, I  was  unable  to  sj)eak  of  this  quality 
of  the  doctor's  from  my  own  experience. 
Chance  willed  it,  however,  that,  on  this 
New  Year's  morning  I  was  alone,  and  in  a 
trame  of  mind,  after  weeks  of  cruel  struggle, 
which  made  it  of  momentous  importance  that 
I  should  have  an  honest  scientific  opinion 
upon  my  case.  Another  year  was  opening 
for  me,  and  for  her.  Was  it  not  my  duty 
to  release  my  darling  from  her  promise,  if 
in  truth  there  was  no  reasonable  prospect 
of  our  being  united  V  That  miserable  dia- 
logue with  conscience,  which  every  one 
knows  at  some  time  or  other,  kept  me  toss- 
ing on  my  bed  night  after  night ;  the  natu- 
ral haven  for  comfort,  a  mother's  arms,  was 
debarred  me ;  I  had  no  friend  to  turn  to  in 
my  trouble  ;  and  religion  —  ah  !  that  I 
shall  have  to  speak  of  presently  ;  but  I  may 
here  observe,  that,  though  it  was  a  subject 
which  engrossed  much  of  my  thoughts  now, 
it  could  hardly  be  said  to  have  brought 
me  peace  as  yet.  I  resolved,  on  finding  my 
self  tete-a-tete  with  Dr.  Hensel,  to  leave  the 
issue  of  this  conflict  virtually  in  his  hands. 
I  said, — 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,  without  any  pallia- 
tions. Dr.  Hensel.  I  can  stand  it.  Shall  I 
ever  be  able  to  move  without  pain  ?  Shall 
I  ever  walk  about  again  ?  " 

He  waited  a  full  minute  before  replying. 

"  You  cannot  be  well  for  a  very  long 
time  :  it  is  possible  that  you  never  will  be 
quite  well  ;  still,  though  I  do  not  wish  to 
Ijuoy  you  up  with  a  hope  that  miv;ht  be  fal- 
lacious, I  believe,  that,  in  the  course  of 
years "  — 

"  Years  I  That  is  enough,"  and  I  turned 
my  face  to  the  wall. 

That  same  afternoon  I  received  a  letter 
from  Francis.  The  following  passage  in  it 
removed  any  doubt  from  my  mind  as  to  how 
I  ought  to  act :  — 

"I  have  had  several  conversations  with 
both  Miss  Ilamleigh  and  her  mother.  The 
former  shows  a  quiet  lorce  of  character  in  re- 
sisting the  pressure  to  which  she  is  subject- 
ed, which  I  confess  surprises  me.  Mrs. 
Hamleigli  never  leaves  her  daughter  a  day's 
peace  about  her  '  foolish  entanglement ' 
with  you,  as  the  expresses  it  ;  and  I  can- 
not help  feeling  sorry  for  the  poor  mother, 
she  is  so  unhappy  al)out  her  child.  'Eve- 
lyn's life  is  being  sacrificed  to  an  idea,'  she 
said   to  me.     '  She  has  had  two  oiliivs  of 


k 


162 


PEXRUDDOCKE. 


marriage,  and  but  that  she  considers  her- 
self bound  to  her  cousin,  she  would  cer- 
tainly accept  one  of"  tliem,  and  my  mind 
would  be  at  ease.  As  it  is,  if  I  die  to  mor- 
row what  is  to  become  of  lier  ?  She  will 
be  alone  in  the  world,  like  Elizabeth,  and 
without  her  wealth.'  Miss  Hamleigh,  on 
the  other  hand,  says,  that,  though  she  will 
never  uiain-y  against  her  mother's  wishes, 
neither  will  she  be  persuaded  to  break  her 
promise  to  you,  wliile  you  desire  this  con- 
ditional engagement  between  you  to  contin- 
ue. I  need  not  say  how  anxious  she  is 
about  you  ;  and  the  line  Mrs.  Hamleigh 
sometimes  takes,  of  exaggering  your  inju- 
ries, and  speaking  of  your  condition  as 
though  it  were  hopeless,  is  the  very  last  to 
attain  her  end  ;  as  she  would  know,  if  she 
were  not  a  poor,  stupid  woman.  Her  daugli- 
ter's  tender  sympathies  are  doubly  excited 
thereby  :  they  would  certainly  be  less  keen 
were  slie  to  hear  of  you  as  robust  and  riot- 
ous." 

This  it  was  which,  after  reading  and  re- 
reading, finally  clinched  the  resolve  I  had 
taken,  in  the  bitter  solitude  of  sj)irit  wherein 
1  passed  my  days  and  nights.  To  renounce 
every  thing,  to  shut  the  door  between  me 
and  my  darling  with  my  own  hand,  — it  was 
agony  to  me  ;  but  the  longer  I  thought  upon 
her,  the  more  imperative  this  sacrifice  at  my 
hanils  appeared. 

After  tearing  up  a  dozen  long  letters,  I 
wrote  to  Evelyn,  the  next  day,  as  follows :  — 


"  This,  my  dearest,  is  the  last  letter,  prob- 
ably, you  will  ever  get  from  me.  Your 
mother  will  not  mind  your  having  it,  when 
she  knows  its  contents. 

"  I  write  to  release  you  from  your  engage- 
ment. It  would  be  unprincipled  and  coward- 
ly selfi>hness  were  I  not  do  so  ;  for,  alas  !  I 
have  no  ho[)e  of  ever  being  able  to  call  you 
mine.  One  doctor  has  at  last  had  the  cour- 
age to  tell  me  —  what  I  had  an  inward  con- 
viction of  eight  months  ago  —  that  I  shall  be 
upon  my  back  for  years.  After  this,  I  should 
indeed  merit  your  mother's  reproaches,  and 
I  could  not  stiile  those  of  my  own  conscience, 
if  I  held  you  bound  by  vows  taken  when  I 
had  strength  and  hope  in  the  future.  I  have 
neither  now,  I  look  forward  to  the  long  life 
that  may  be  before  me,  —  I  am  ashamed  to 
own  with  what  dread  ;  but  to  chain  your  lot 
to  that  of  a  wretched  cripple  on  his  sofa  — 
no,  that  I  would  never  do.  Your  love  has 
brightened  all  my  youth,  which,  God  knows  1 
would  have  been  clouded  enough  without  it. 
—  it  is  my  abiding  comfort  still ;  and  the  pre- 
cious memory  of  it  will  cheer  the  years  that 
may  yet  be  left  to  me,  when  you  have  formed 
otliL-r  ties,  which  I  pray  earnestly  may  be  for 
your  happiness." 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

Extract  from  a  letter  of  Mr.  Francis's, 
dated  Jan.  7  :  — 

"  I  gave  your  enclosure  to  Miss  Hamleigh. 
They  were  leaving  Beaumanoir  the  same 
day  (as  Mrs.  Everett  had  arrived)  ;  but,  be- 
fore their  departure  that  afternoon,  I  had  a 
few  words  alone  with  Miss  H.,  the  substance 
of  which  it  is  right  I  should  repeat  to  you. 
She  was  terribly  upset  by  your  letter  :  first, 
by  the  view  you  take  of  your  case  ;  second- 
ly, by  your  gicin;/  her  up,  as  she  expressed  it. 
This  renders  her  position  doubly  difficult. 
She  would  have  waited  patiently  for  years; 
she  is  sanguine  of  your  ultimate  recovery, 
but  now,  —  what  weapons  have  you  not 
placed  in  her  mother's  hands  !  Of  course, 
as  she  never  conceals  any  thing  from  Mrs. 
Hamleigh,  she  told  her  at  once  of  your  let- 
ter ;  indeed,  you  evidently  meant  her  to  do 
so,  as  you  say  you  communicated  the  fact 
yourself  to  Lady  Rachel.  It  is  clear  tome 
that  the  latter  has  written  very  openly  to 
Mrs.  Hamleigh  of  her  views  and  hopes  as 
regards  you.  Though  no  name  was  men- 
tioned, I  saw  at  once  to  whom  Miss  Ham- 
leigh referred  ;  and  I  began  to  understand 
the  coldness  of  her  manner  to  Elizabeth 
when  she  said,  'Mamma  has  been  telling 
me,  ever  since  last  June,  that  Osmund 
wishes  to  break  off  our  engagement ;  that 
he  has  other  views,  and  is  prepared,  when 
he  recovers,  to  make  a  marriage  which  will 
be  —  advantageous  to  him  in  all  ways.  I 
have  never  believed  it,  and  I  do  not  believe 
it  now  ;  but  she  says  I  am  mad  to  doubt  it ; 
that  I  cannot  persist  in  clinging  to  him  if 
he  desires  to  be  free  ;  that  though  he  may  be 
fond  of  me,  and  to  give  me  up  may  be  a  sac- 
rifice, yet,'that  during  his  long  illness  he 
has  been  brought  to  see  how  foolish  such  a 
marriage  would  be,  —  especially  when  he 
might  marry  a  person  who  —  in  short,  a 
person  so  much  more  suitable.  I  shall  suf- 
fer far  more  than  before,'  she  added  ;  '  for  I 
feel  as  if  the  ground  were  taken  from  under 
my  feet.  I  took  my  stand  upon  my  promise, 
and  now  what  can  I  say  to  mamma?  O 
Mr.  Francis,  you  who  know  dear  Osmund 
better  than  any  one,  tell  me  the  truth,  — 
tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do ! '  I  replied,  '  I 
feel  for  you  deeply,  but  this  is  a  case  in 
which  advice  is  impossible.  You  nmst  be 
guided  by  your  own  feelings,  and  your  own 
sense  of  what  is  right,  as  Osmund,  I  believe, 
has  been  guided  by  his.  One  thing,  how- 
ever, I  may  with  certainty  affirm.  In  free- 
ing you,  he  has  been  actuated  by  no  ulterior 
thought  of  another  marriage.'  I  could  say 
no  less  than  this,  as  Elizabeth's  friend  ;  but 
I  could  say  no  more.  As  to  counsel,  what 
could  I  give  ?    You  have  released  her  word  ; 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


163 


you  cannot  release  her  affections.  Time  and 
absence  ni:iy  effect  this  ;  and  her  mother's 
supplications  may,  in  the  end,  prevail  to 
make  her  marry  some  one  else  —  it  is  not 
impossible.  *  Gutta  cavet  lapldern.'  But  it 
will  not  be  the  work  of  a  day  ....  Mrs. 
Everett  seems  the  person  of  all  others  likely 
to  suit  Elizabeth.  She  is  a  little  swarthy 
•woman  of  forty,  dressed  in  a  jacket,  with  her 
hair  cut  short ;  but  her  gentle  voice  and 
manner  are  agreeably  at  variance  with  this 
man-like  appearance.  She  has  walked  the 
hospitals  in  America,  and  taken  a  medical 
degree.  The  ililHculties  she  encountered  in 
pursuing  her  profession  in  this  country  in- 
duced her  to  give  it  up  when  E.'s  handsome 
ofler  was  made  her,  through  a  friend  of 
mine.  ■  She  has  travelled  half  over  the 
world ;  she  is  energetic,  intelligent,  and, 
judging  by  her  face,  good-tempered  ;  and 
her  knowledge  of  medicine  may  prove 
valuable,  if  E.'s  roving  inclination  leads  us 
into  uncivilized  regions." 

I  have  added  this  last  paragraph  of  the 
letter,  though  it  will  readily  be  conceive 
that  Mrs.  Everett  and  her  jacket  were  mat- 
ters of  the  purest  indifference  to  me,  be- 
cause, as  I  shall  not  have  occasion  to  refer 
to  Beaumanoir  for  some  little  time,  it  ex- 
plains how  matters  stood  with  its  inmates, 
and  1  may  therefore  leave  them  for  the 
present. 

The  day  following:,  mv  mother  received 
a  longish  letter  from  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  a  pas- 
sage in  which  she  read  to  me.  She  was 
inexpressibly  rejoiced  that  I  had  "  seen  the 
wisdom  of  taking  the  course  "  I  had  done. 
She  felt  sure  it  was  "  for  the  happiness  of 
both  concerned."  She  had  given  her  dear- 
est Evelyn  permission  to  answer  my  letter  ; 
and  ]Mrs.  Hamleigh  was  sure  my  good 
feeling  would  suggest  that  this  communica- 
tion  should  be  final.  She  trusted  that  at 
some  future  time  Evelyn  and  I  might  meet 
as  affectionate  cousins ;  but  at  present  it 
was  best  that  nothing  more  should  pass  be- 
tween us. 

Then  Evelyn's  note  was  handed  to  me, 
sealed.  She  had  certainly  desired,  —  and 
apparently  her  mother  had  conceded,  — 
that  no  eye  should  see  those  lines  but 
mine.  It  did  not  escape  my  attention, 
however,  that  the  seal  loc^ked  as  if  it  had 
been  tampered  with.  It  might  have  been 
bruised  in  the  post ;  she  might  have  re- 
opened her  letter;  there  were  a  hundred 
ways  of  accounting  for  it ;  and  the  fact 
made  so  little  impression,  that  it  was  only 
long  afterwards  I  recalled  it. 

"My  dearest,  dearest  Osmund, — 
God  knows  what  is  best  lor  you.  I  must 
not  think  of  myself.  J  pray  everj'  hour  of 
the  day  that  he   may  guard   and   restore 


you  to  health  ;  and  I  feel  sure  he  will  do 
so. 

"  They  tell  me  that  the  thought  of  our 
engagement  worries  you,  when  you  should 
have  perfect  rest.  If  this  be  so,  I  have  no 
more  to  say.  What  are  words  ?  What  is 
a  promise  ?  My  heart  will  not  remain  the 
less  true  to  you,  until  I  know  that  your  own 
is  changed.  In  that  case — if  you  do  not 
release  me  from  any  false  fueling  of  gener- 
osity, but  because  you  wish  to  be  free,  free 
to  form  other  ties  hereal'ter,  —  send  me 
back  that  lock  of  my  hair  you  wear  in  a 
locket.  You  need  not  write,  dear  Osmund. 
I  shall  know  what  it  means.  Until  then, 
"  I  am  still  your  faithful 

"  Evelyn." 

"  Those  few  words,  so  simple,  so  reticent, 
moved  me  deeply.  Ah  !  Mrs.  Hamleigh,  it 
was  clear,  did  not  divine  the  terms  in  which 
my  darling  had  accepted  my  cancelling  our 
engagement,  or  she  would  never  have  per- 
mitted those  comforting  words  to  reach 
me. 

I  had  done  all  that  conscience  demanded, 
—  more  I  would  never  do.  No,  that  lock 
of  hair  which  I  now  always  wore  next  my 
heart  should  never  leave  me.  We  might 
not  meet  again  this  side  the  grave  ;  but  she 
should  have  the  assurance  that  I  had  re- 
mained faithful  unto  the  end. 

I  forgot  that  my  mother  possessed  a  long 
brown  curl,  set  behind  a  certain  miniature 
of  Evelyn  that  was  in  her  desk.  And  in 
her  eyes  the  end  justified  all  means. 

Months  passed.  There  was  no  altera- 
tion in  my  physical  condition  ;  but  the  color 
of  my  mind  was  undergoing  a  gradual 
change.  Day  by  day,  morbidly  brooding 
over  past  folly  and  present  retribution,  to 
which  I  saw  no  limit  but  with  life,  my 
thoughts  turned  to  religion,  and  sought  com- 
fort there,  but  as  yet  found  none.  "  Help 
thou  mine  unbelief,"  was  the  cry  of  my 
profound  dejection,  as  I  lifted  my  eyes  to 
the  contemplation  of  that  better  life,  by  a 
firm  belief  in  which  good  men  "  possessed 
their  souls  with  patience  "  under  every"  ca- 
lamity. Mr.  Francis  had  first  awoke  this 
spiritual  longing  within  me  six  months  be- 
fore :  it  was  yet  unsatisfied. 

My  urgent  desire  was  to  become  a  Roman 
Catholic,  —  a  member  of  that  church  which 
could  bear  such  fruits  as  were  shown  in 
the  character  of  Ambrose  Francis;  but  I 
could  not  bring  my  mind  into  the  state  of 
subjection  necessary  to  accept  its  doctrines. 
My  stubborn  individuality  rebelled  against 
the  theory  of  personal  irresponsibility  con- 
soiiuent  upon  absolution,  the  suspension  of 
private  judgment,  and  blind  obedience  to 
the    Church.       I    struggled    and    prayed 


164 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


against  this  obstinacy,  which  I  believed 
was  of  the  Devil.  Weary  and  heartsore,  I 
would  fain  have  cast  all  ray  burdens  into 
the  arms  of  this  niiuhty  mother,  claiming; 
to  be  the  representative  of  man's  Creator 
upon  earth ;  but  I  could  not. 

Here  is  a  passage  i'rom  one  of  Francis's 
letters  that  winter,  which  will  show  that  he 
was  too  wise,  however  earnestly  he  might 
desire  my  conversion,  to  urge  my  taking  a 
step  which  he  felt  would  be  premature,  — 

"  Do  nothing  rashly,  my  son.  God.  in 
his  own  good  time,  will  bring  you  to  a 
knowledge  of  himself,  as  he  is  revealed  in 
our  holy  Church.  Of  this  I  feel  confident, 
—  the  more  you  study  its  tenets,  the  more 
you  will  perceive  that  it  is  the  only  one 
which  is  indestructible  and  omnipotent 
over  the  erring  heart  of  man.  Other  creeds 
tell  men  to  seek  God,  —  mine  teaches  that 
God  has  found  them.  Your  soul  cleaveth 
to  the  dust,  as  David's  did,  and  now  you 
lift  your  eyes,  and  behold  something  that  is 
above  and  beyond  this  world  ;  but  do  not 
mistake  a  transient  state  of  feeling  for  a 
permanant  condition  of  faith.  From  the 
conversions  of  sentimental  impulse  little 
good  can  accrue." 

That  summer  was  passed  in  the  Pyre- 
nees. I  have  nothing  to  record  of  it.  The 
autumn  saw  us  back  again  at  Nice,  in  our 
old  apartments  in  the  Villa  Lyon.  It  was 
towards  the  middle  of  November  when  the 
following  scene  took  place. 


CHAPTER  LVn. 

"  I  HAVE  heard  from  Belinda  Hamleigh," 
said  my  mother  slowly,  as  she  stood  beside 
my  sofa,  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 
— "  and  her  letter  contains  a  piece  of 
news." 

I  looked  up  interrogatively.  My  heart 
stood  still ;  Ijfelt  what  it  was. 

"  I  am  glad  to  say  Evelyn  has  at  last 
been  brought  to  reason,  and  has  accepted 
Lord  Tufton." 

I  said  not  a  word.  The  room  was  dark- 
ened by  the  closed  persiennes ;  my  mother 
could  not  see  my  face. 

"  After  freeing  her,  as  you  most  rightly 
did,"  continued  she,  "  you  have  too  much 
good  sense  not  to  be  glad  that  "  — 

"  Glad  ?  —  say  no  more,  mother  !  Don't 
I  know  all  my  poor  darling  has  been  made 
to  suffer  before  she  could  be  brought  to  for- 
swear herself;  for  she  has  forsworn  herself. 
The  promise  she  made  was  none  of  my 
seeking,  —  but  she  made  it,  all  the  same, 
in  her  last  note  to  me." 


My  mother  folded  and  unfolded  the  let- 
ter in  her  hand  a  little  nervously. 

"  Belinda  no  doubt  referred  her  to  your 
own  letter  in  urging  Evelyn  to  take  this 
step  Remember  what  you  said  about  the 
hopelessness  of  your  marrying.  Though 
you  take  too  gloomy  a  view  of  your  own 
case,  yet  you  could  not  expect  a  girl  to  go 
on  waiting  for  years  "  — 

"  Years  I  —  why,  it  is  just  ten  months." 

"  In  those  ten  months,"  she  continued, 
adroitly  shifting  her  ground,  "  Lord  Tufton 
has  come  forward  twice,  undaunted  by  his 
previous  rejection.  Such  constancy  would 
touch  any  girl ;  and  then  such  a  charming 
person  as  he  is,  —  you  yourself  always  say 
so  !  It  is  a  great  relief  to  her  poor  mother 
that  Evelyn  will  be  so  well  settled,  and  I 
think  we  ought  all  to  feel  very  glad." 

"  I  hope  to  heaven  she  may  be  happy  !  " 
I  groaneil ;  "  only  don't  ask  me  to  feel  glad : 
my  heart  is  too  sore  for  that." 

"  Men  are  certainly  very  selfish,"  said 
my  mother,  shaking  her  head.  "  You  give 
up  your  cousin  with  a  shoto  of  magnanimity ; 
but  immediately  you  hear  that  dear  Evelyn 
is  trying  to  reconcile  herself  to  her  fate, 
and  has  consented  to  marry  a  most  de- 
lightful person,  you  are  indignant.  It  is 
so  unreasonable ! " 

It  was,  perhaps ;  at  all  events,  I  felt  it 
to  be  selfish,  for  I  had  no  more  prospect 
of  ever  being  able  to  claim  her  now  than  I 
had  a  year  ago.  But  the  heart  of  man  is 
"  deceitful  upon  the  weights,"  and  I  was 
utterly  crushed.  Her  faithfulness  had 
been  the  one  ray  in  my  darkened  lot ;  and 
now  the  night  had  indeed  closed  round 
me. 

The  longer  I  thought  over  it,  the  more 
inexplicable  it  seemed,  with  all  I  knew 
myself,  and  all  that  Francis  had  written, 
of  my  darling's  steadfastness.  My  fiiith  in 
human  nature  was  shattered.  If  she  was 
untrue,  where,  indeed,  could  I  look  for 
truth  ? 

I  drove  during  this  month  almost  daily 
to  the  Monastery  of  Cimies.  Joe  carried 
me,  like  a  child,  from  the  carriage,  and 
laid  me  in  the  vine-trellissed  garden,  where, 
far  removed  from  the  turmoils  of  the  town, 
I  watched  the  good  monks  digging,  or  pa- 
cing the  terraces  in  meditation.  I  envied 
their  peaceful  alternations  of  prayer  and 
toil,  and  remembered  with  a  sigh  the  mer- 
ciless condemnation  I  had  passed  upon  such 
lives  in  the  insolent  narrow-mindedness  of 
youth. 

Ah  !  how  far  away  those  days  at  Ghent, 
only  four  years  off,  now  seemed  ! 

The  thought  of  a  monastic  life  occupied 
me  much.  Of  what  use  was  I  now  to  any 
one  ?  Certainly  of  none  to  my  mother, 
who  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  and, 


PENRUDDOCKK 


165 


■with  her  great  beauty,  would  easily  form 
new  and  more  serviceable  ties,  when  ab- 
solved from  her  "  duty  "  to  me.  Surely  to 
one  sick  of  the  world,  as  I  was,  a  life  of 
religious  contemplation  was  eminently  fit- 
ted," if  I  could  only  bring  my  mind  into 
unison  with  the  lofty  organ-tones  of  Rom- 
anism. The  narrow,  empty-hearted  secta- 
rianism in  which  I  had  been  educated  had, 
unhappily,  been  further  disfigured  in  my 
eyes  by  the  practices,  so  widely  different 
from  the  precepts,  of  some  of  its  stanchest 
upholders.  I  could  not  look  for  comfort 
there.  Should  I  find  it  in  a  Catholic  mon- 
astery ?' 

Here  again  stepped  in  my  fi-iend  with 
his  true  wisdom.  "  It  is  natural  that  you 
should  be  struck  with  the  beauty  of  a  con- 
ventual life  at  such  a  moment  as  this,  but 
those  who  have  a  real  vocation  for  such  an 
existence  are  few.  Within  the  walls  of  a 
monastery  there  is  no  outlet  for  energies 
such  as  yours  once  were,  and  will  yet  be 
again  some  day." 

Later  on,  in  the  same  letter,  he  wrote,  — 

"I  confess  that  the  announcement  of 
Miss  Hamleigh's  engagement  has  surprised 
me.  When  1  handed  to  her  the  letter  in 
which  you  released  her  from  her  promise,  I 
did  not  antieii)ate  that  she  would  so  soon 
take  advantage  of  it.  I  cannot  reconcile 
it  with  her  own  words  to  me.  It  falsifies 
the  estimate  I  formed  of  her.  When  I 
contrast  a  love  that  can  be  so  easily  turned 
aside  with  the  tenacity  of  attachment  my 
poor  Elizabeth  manifests,  whether  it  be  to 
her  father's  memory,  or  any  other  object,  I 
cannot  but  lament  what  I  now  know  to  be 
unalterable.  But  in  doing  so,  alas  !  I  feel 
that  I  am  a  recusant  to  the  faith  that  I 
have  ever  professed  —  that  whatever  in  is 
for  our  ultimate  good.  Your  soul  is  passing 
through  a  grievous  trial.  I  pray  to  God 
that  it  may  strengthen  those  higher  aspira- 
tions which  your  bodily  sufferings  origin- 
ally kindled.  But  these  must  not  lead  to 
narrow  your  sphere  of  action.  Selt-imposed 
restaint  would  never  profit  you,  Osmund." 

I  here  recall  with  a  smile  —  which  it  hard- 
ly awoke  at  the  time,  in  so  abnormal  a  con- 
dition was  I  —  the  characteristic  arguments 
wherewith  my  faithful  Joe  opposed  my 
growing  tendencies.  At  first  his  views 
were  not  wholly  adverse  to  a  conventual 
life  :  — 

"  They  keeps  the  women  out.  H'm  I  it'd 
save  a  deal  of  bother,  if  they  was  kep'  out 
of  every  thing." 

But  when  his  shrewdness  detected  the 
peril  to  me,  he  changed  his  tone. 

'•You're  not  a'  goin'  to  shut  yourself  up 
in  one  of  them  vaonA^larj  places,  I  hope  V  " 

'*  Why  not  ?  Better  men,  and  worse, 
too,  have  dune  so,  Joe,  and  have  found  conso- 


lation in  serving  God,  and  repenting  of  their 
sins." 

"  H'm !  I'd  ha'  done  it  when  I  was 
a-gallivanting  about  London,  if  I  was  you. 
'T'aint  nuich  good  a-shuttin'  of  y'rself  up 
now,  when  you  can't  break  out  if  you 
wished  it  ever  so  —  a-lyin'  there  on  the 
broad  o'  your  back,  as  harmless  as  an  in- 
fant !  Why,  it's  like  a  widder  of  eighty  as 
prays  that  she  may  keep  the  seventh  com- 
mandment I  " 

My  mother  gradually  became  seriously 
alarmed.  It  dawned  upon  her  at  last  that 
I  was  in  imminent  danger  of  becoming  an 
apostate,  and  not  impossibly  a  monk.  It 
was  not  ibr  this  that  she  had  labored. 
She  was  still  sanguine  as  to  my  ultimate 
recovery,  and  unremitting  in  her  care.  No 
effort  was  spared  to  divert  my  thoughts. 
Ladies  whom  my  mother's  English-county 
ideas  of  propriety  would  have  excluded 
under  other  circumstances  she  now  admit- 
ted, in  the  hope  of  inducing  me  to  receive 
a  few  amusing  visitors  daily  ;  but  I  refused. 
I  was  sick  of  the  world,  and  looked  back 
to  my  London  life  with  acrimony.  How 
right  poor  Madame  d'Arnheim  had  been  ! 
How  often  I  remembered  her  warnings  ! 
But  for  the  worthless  people  I  had  then 
lived  amongst,  I  should  not  be  as  I  now 
was.  All  which  was  brought  forcibly  to 
my  mind  when  my  mother  said  one  day, 
on  returning  from  her  drive,  — 

"I  met  some  friends  of  yours  to-day, 
who  are  just  arrived  from  Cannes  —  quite 
a  large  party.  Lord  and  Lady  Ancastar, 
Mrs.  Chaffinch,  and  some  men.  I  went 
into  Lady  Susan's,  wh^re  they  were;  and, 
hearing  my  name  announced.  Lady  Ancas- 
tar begged  to  be  introduced,  and  said  they 
would  all  come  and  see  you  to-morrow. 
She  was  most  kind  in  her  manner.  I  was 
quite  agreeably  surprised,  after  all  I  had 
heard  about  her." 

"  It  is  more  than  I  am.  I  don't  want  to 
see  any  of  them." 

"  Really,  my  dear  Osmund,  I  think  that 
is  hardly  right.  When  old  friends  who 
express  themselves  so  very  much  interested 
about  you"  — 

"  Friends  1  Do  you  call  such  people 
'friends?'" 

"  You  lived  entirely  in  their  set  in  Lon- 
don, did  you  not  ?  " 

"  The  people  one  sees  most  of  in  London 
are  often  not  one's  fi-iends,"  I  said.  "  At 
all  events,  I  have  no  more  to  do  with  the 
things  that  interest  them.  I  have  dropped 
out  of  their  life,  and  should  not  appreciate 
the  last  London  scandal.  They  woiiUl  find 
me  very  slow,  and  I  don't  want  their  pity ; 
so  I  decline  seeing  them." 

It  was  thus  I  met  every  proposition  made 
with  the  view  of  changing,  if  possible,  the 


166 


PEXRUDDOCKE. 


current  of  my  ideas.  I  had  become  ae- 
quainteil  with  a  priest,  who  visited  me  con- 
stantly, and  supplied  nio  with  books,  which, 
I  am  bound  to  say,  I  but   imperfectly  com- 

f)rehended.  Still  I  strove  diligently  to  be- 
ieve  the  dogmas  therein  upheld  :  it  was 
no  fault  of  mine  if  I  failed.  These  visits 
and  these  books  were  a  source  of  <;rave  and 
increasing  annoyance  to  my  mother.  So 
were  my  drives  to  Cimies,  and  the  hours 
that  I  spent,  during  Lent,  in  one  or  other 
of  the  cluu'ches ;  but  she  was  too  wise  to 
expostulate,  or  enter  upon  religious  discus- 
sions. She  placed  evangelical  diatribes 
a'^ainst  the  Scarlet  Woman  upon  my  table, 
and  invited  an  English  curate  with  a  cough 
to  spend  two  or  three  evenings  a  week  with 
us.  He  was  a  good  man,  doing  hard  work 
among  the  poor  of  his  English  parish,  I  am 
sure,  to  which  I  sincerely  trust  he  has  been 
Testorcd  long  since,  renovated  in  health. 
Persuasion,  however,  was  not  his  Ibrte — 
could  not  have  been,  under  any  circum- 
stances ;  and  now  his  cough  was  a  great 
aggravation  of  his  tedium.  I  positively 
writhed  under  it,  and  often  retired  to  my 
room,  pleading  a  headache. 

My  mother  was  at  her  wit's  end.  How 
could  she  rouse  me  from  the  morbid  de- 
spondency which  had  taken  this  religious 
form,  and  threatened  to  drive  me  into 
Romanism  ?  It  might  even  be  to  take 
vows  of  celibacy,  and  immure  myself  with- 
in convent  walls  ! 

Chance  beti'iended  her,  and  brought  her 
help  in  this  strait,  from  a  quarter  where  she 
had  little  riijht  to  look  for  it. 


CHAPTER  LVm. 

"  Tiip:y  tell  me  she's  a  grand-duchess," 
said  Joe ;  "  but  I  don't  think  much  of  her 
grandeur,  as  has  only  two  flunkies,  and  no 
guard  of  honor  —  not  even  a  sentry  put 
over  her  door." 

'•  Why,  the  Prince  of  Wales  hasn't  that 
when  he  is  travelling,  Joe :  no  royalties 
have." 

"  Koyalties,  indeed  I  They  seem  to  be 
thick  as  blackberries  in  these  foreign  parts, 
and  every  bit  as  poor.  They  ain't  the  reel, 
solid  article,  like  our  rovalties,  I  don't 
make  much  account  of  them,"  he  said,  with 
an  air  of  profound  contempt. 

The  dialogue  referred  to  the  grand- 
duchess  of  Bodensee,  who  had  arrived  at 
the  villa  that  afternoon.  We  occupied  the 
ground-tloor ;  the  remainder,  lately  vacated 
(it  was  now  the  end  of  March),  the  duchess 
had  sent  her  Kammerherr  from  Mentone  to 
engage   for  a  few  weeks.     Her  suite  was 


small,  consisting  of  one  lady,  besides  ser- 
vants. 

The  grand-duchess  recalled  jMadame 
d'Arnheira,  whose  intimate  frii-nd  I  knew 
she  was ;  but  I  was  far  from  anticipating  the 
intelligence  which  Joe  communicated  to 
me  the  next  morning,  —  that  he  had  seen 
the  duchess  and  her  "  Hoi'dame  "  go  out 
walking,  and  had  recognized  in  the  latter 
"  that  foreign  lady  as  come  and  nussed  you 
the  fust  night ;  and  a  right  good  un  she 
was  too." 

At  luncheon  my  mother  said,  looking 
straight  out  of  window  as  she  spoke,  — 

'  Who  do  you  think  is  in  this  house? 
Your  friend,  Madame  d'Arnbeim." 

"  I  know  it,  and  am  very  sorry." 

"  Why  ?  You  will  not  refuse  to  see  her, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  She  is  not  likely  to  ask  to  see  me,  or 
put  her  foot  inside  our  door,  after  the  treat- 
ment she  received." 

My  mother  said  nothing,  and  the  after- 
noon passed.  The  following  day  I  wit- 
nessed a  curious  little  scene  from  my  win- 
dow, which  gave  me  food  for  some  sarcastic 
reflection.  I  caught  sight  of  a  figure  be- 
tween  the  orange  and  rose  trees  which  was 
very  familiar  to  me.  The  tall,  slight 
woman  in  gray,  under  a  Nice  umbrella,  was 
walking  leisurely  towards  the  sea,  when  I 
beheld  my  mother  hurrying,  almost  run- 
ning, —  she  who  never  hurried,  —  after  her. 
Madame  d'Arnheim  had  reached  the  gate 
before  my  mother  had  caught  her  up ;  and 
there  they  stood,  full  in  my  view.  It  was 
too  far  off  to  distinguish  the  expression  of 
Madame  d'Arnheim's  face,  as  she  turned 
round  ;  but  there  was  a  certain  drawing 
back  in  the  attitude  which  was  not  to  be 
mistaken.  They  were  there  for  more  than 
ten  minutes,  my  mother  talking  earnestly 
all  the  time,  as  it  seemed,  while  the  other 
scarcely  spoke.  Finally  I  saw  my  mother 
put  out  her  hand  :  Madame  d'Arnheim  took 
it,  and  they  separated. 

I  lay  back  on  my  sofa  with  a  smile,  part- 
ly of  satisfaction  that  my  mother  had  seen 
fit  to  apologize  for  her  behavior  (whatever 
her  words  might  be,  the  act  amounted  to 
this),  partly  of  amusement  at  the  force  of 
circumstances,  which  had  driven  her  to  do 
this  thing. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  me.  I  had  never 
been  able  to  think  of  my  poor  friend  with- 
out a  blush  of  indignant  shame.  How 
should  we  meet  ?  was  the  question  I  had 
been  asking  myself  ever  since  I  learnt  of 
her  being  under  f^he  same  roof;  but  she 
had  condoned  my  mother's  offence.  I  was 
prepared  for  the  message  sent  me  late  that 
afternoon,  to  ask  if  I  would  see  the  Coun- 
tess d'Arnheim. 

She  was  slightly  flushed  as  she  entered 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


167 


the  salon  ;  but  her  countenance  bore  the 
traces  of  suirerinsr  durino;  the  ei'jhteen 
months  since  we  had  met. 

"  I  scarcely  thougjht  you  would  come," 
said  I,  holding  out  my  hand. 

"  I  should  not  have  done  so,  had  not  your 
mother  herjcjed  me,"  was  the  reply.  Then 
she  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  my  sofa. 
"  Poor  boy !  how  much  you  have  gone 
through  !  Ah !  the  last  time  I  saw  you  I 
littie  thought  you  would  be  alive  now. 
Every  hour  of  that  night  I  expected  would 
be  your  last.  I  grieve  to  hear  from  your 
mother  that  you  suffer  a  great  deal  at 
times  ;  but  you  looh  by  no  means  so  ill." 

"  Ah  !  well,  let  us  talk  of  something  else. 
Why  did  yOu  never  answer  one  of  my  let- 
ters?"-    - 

'•  Because  —  I  thought  it  best  not.  It  is 
an  odd  accident  that  throws  us  together 
now,  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  we 
should  never  meet  again." 

"  You  did  not  know  of  my  being  here, 
then?" 

"  I  only  learnt  it  last  night,  after  we  had 
arrived.  Otherwise,  to  be  frank,  I  think  I 
should  have  urged  the  duchess  to  take  an- 
other a2:)artment." 

"  I  can  well  understand  that,"  I  sighed. 

"  But  Lady  Rachel  has  said  all  and 
more  than  I  could  expect,  to  counteract  the 
effect  of  her  jealousy  when  she  found  me 
nursing  you  :  and  that  is  forgotten  now  ; 
I  think  no  more  of  it." 

"  It  is  like  you  to  say  that.  Now  tell  me 
about  yourself.  I  thought  you  were  living 
at  Dresden  ?  " 

"  I  Avas  until  December.  Then,  as  all 
chance  of  my  returning  to  my  husband  was 
at  an  end,  the  grand-duchess  proposed 
that  I  should  take  the  post  left  vacant  by 
one  other  ladies.  I  was  glad  of  any  thiug 
which  gave  me  certain  duties  to  perform. 
I  was  of  no  use  to  any  of  my  relations,  —  I 
could  be  of  use  to  my  old  friend  ;  so  I 
came." 

"  And  about  D'Arnheim  ?  Tell  me  why 
you  say  all  chance  of  returning  is  at  an 
end  ?  " 

"Because  he  is  so  infatuated  with  that 
woman,  that  he  wants  me  to  consent  to  a 
divorce,  that  he  may  marry  her.  In  Ger- 
many, as  you  know,  it  is  a  very  easy  mat- 
ter;  but  his  family,  as  well  as  my  own,  im- 
plore me  not  to  yiclil,  and  I  have  not  yet 
done  so." 

"  I  suppose  his  people  hope,  that,  after 
a  while,  he  will  return  to  his  allegiance  to 
you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  return  to  him,"  she  said 
slowly,  "  unless  he  is  dying.  I  know  Carl's 
character  too  well  now  to  believe  that  any 
reform  wftulil  be  jxTuianent;  but  it  is  not 
that.     A  wife  may  tolerate  all  that  I  have 


done,  and  more  perhaps,  if  there  are  occa- 
sions, ever  so  rare,  when  she  feels  that  she 
has  a  good  influence  over  her  husband. 
Mine,  unhappily,  after  the  first  year  of  our 
marriage,  has  been  the  reverse." 

"  How  so  ?  You  do  not  mean  that  liter- 
ally ?;' 

"  Yes,  I  do.  INIy  remonstrances  aggra- 
vated him,  and  yet  gave  a  kind  of  zest  to 
pursuits  of  which  perhaps  he  might  other- 
wise have  tired.  Our  characters  are  an- 
tagonistic. I  am  disposed  to  think  he 
might  have  been  a  better  man  if  he  had 
married  another  sort  of  woman." 

"  And  this  is  why  you  have  left  liim  ?  " 

"  I  could  be  of  no  comlort,  —  I  did  him 
more  harm  than  good.  I  often  wonder  if 
Lady  Byron,  when  she  left  her  husband, 
asked  herself  this,  —  not  what  were  his  of- 
fences, but  whether  she  could  recall  any 
transient  moment  when  his  heart  had  been 
really  softened  towards  her  ?  If  she  could 
recall  any  one  such,  then  to  abandon  the 
slender  chance  of  reclaiming  him  was  un- 
justifiable. I  have  not  this  to  reproach 
myself  with,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  in- 
flection of  bitterness.  "  Nothing  could 
ever  touch  him,  —  /  never  did,  at  least." 

"  No  wife  was  ever  more  patient  and 
long-sufTering,"  I  said. 

"  One  less  so  would  have  suited  him  bet- 
ter. Human  nature  is  so  strange.  In  this, 
Lady  Byron's  case  and  mine  are  alike. 
Every  thing  about  me  irritated  Carl.  Un- 
like Byron,  sometimes  he  paid  '  the  homage 
that  vice  ])ays  to  virtue,'  and  concealed  his 
conduct ;  but  often,  and  latterly  especially, 
he  seemed  to  find  a  pleasure  in  openly  in- 
sulting me.  It  is  better  for  us  both  this 
should  be  no  longer  in  his  power." 

"  But  your  family  does  not  think  so, 
since  they  object  to  the  divorce?" 

"  They  think  it  looks  ill  for  a  married 
woman  to  return  to  her  maiden  name. 
There  is  alwa}'s  a  certain  number  of  peo- 
ple who  will  believe  that  there  was  some- 
thing against  her.  On  the  other  hand,  his 
family  are  anxious  to  prevent  his  marrying 
Mrs.  Wild.  Of  all  her  admirers,  Carl 
seems  to  be  the  only  one  who  has  remained 
constant  since  her  divorce." 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  a  man  of 
the  world,  as  he  is,  would  injure  his  pros- 
pects by  such  a  marriage,  if  lie  were  free 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  is  a  man  of  the  world,  it  is 
true ;  but  he  is  a  slave  to  his  passions  be- 
fore every  thing.  He  lias  never  known 
what  it  was  to  deny  himself  a  pleasure. 
That  horrible  woman  has  got  an  ascen- 
dency over  him  for  the  time,  —  he  would 
sacrifice  every  thing  to  her;  and  yet  he 
is  no  fool  :  but  one  sees  these  contradic- 
tions every  day.     And  now,"  she  said,  after 


168 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


a  momont's  pause,  "  tell  me  something  of 
your  own  hopes." 

I  shook  my  head,  and  returned  quickly,  — 

"  I  have  none." 

"  You  say  that  because  you  arc  de- 
pressed about  your  health  ;  but,  —  the  lit- 
tle cousin  ?     She  remains  true  to  you '?  " 

I  yhook  my  head  asjain. 

"  I  releaseil  her.  I  have  no  right  to  com- 
plain." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  she  is  going  to  marry 
some  one  else  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  tone  v.'hich 
indicated  far  more  than  the  mere  words. 

"  Yes,  —  Arthur  Tufton.  Poor  child  ! 
You  mustn't  blame  her.  Think  what  her 
life  would  be,  bound  to  me,  —  a  wretched 
cripple  ! " 

''  To  lighten  the  lot  of  a  man  who  has 
loved  faithfully,  and  suffered  as  you  have, 
would  sweeten  lift  to  some  women,"  she 
observed. 

"  I  should  be  a  selfish  brute  if  I  wished 
for  such  a  sacrifice  !  No  :  it  is  better  for 
Tier,  as  it  is.  She  marries  as  fine  a  fellow 
as  ever  stepped,  and  I  hope  to  Heaven  she 
may  be  happy." 

"  Did  Lord  Tufton  know  of  your  attach- 
ment ?  "  she  asked  after  a  pause. 

"  No ;  though  we  were  so  intimate,  I 
never  spoke  to  him  of  Evelyn."  I  then  ex- 
plained to  her,  as  I  have  already  done  in 
these  pages,  how  it  came  to  pass  that  I  had 
never  confided  the  story  of  my  early  love 
to  my  friend.  "  Not  till  he  had  been  bowled 
over  by  the  very  same  ball,"  I  added,  "  did 
I  feel  how  much  better  it  would  have  been 
to  have  told  him  all.  And  then  it  was  too 
late !  " 

'•  Ah  !  Is  it  ever  too  late  to  be  open  ? 
Y''our  friend  would  have  fled  the  tempta- 
tion, had  he  known  the  state  of  the  case." 

"  I  ought  not  to  wish  it,  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim.  She  would  have  been  made  to 
marry  some  one,  sooner  or  later.  I  am  the 
only  sufferer ;  and  for  what  remains  of  my 
lite  now,  I  only  desire  to  be  as  little  burden 
to  any  one  as  I  can." 

(Tradually,  in  subsequent  conversations, 
my  Iriend  learnt  the  troubled  state  of  my 
mind  upon  the  subject  of  religion,  and  how 
the  idea  of  monastic  life,  if  1  ever  regained 
sufficient  bodily  strength  to  embrace  it, 
commended  itself  to  me. 

"  Of  what  good  shall  I  ever  be  in  the 
world  ?  Military  ambition  is  at  an  end. 
I  must  send  in  my  papers  immediately,  for 
there  is  no  hope  of  my  being  able  to  serve 
again.  I  take  no  interest  in  any  thing.  I 
feel  bruised,  morally  and  j)hysically,  all 
over.  I  fancy  that  in  a  life  of  religious  ex- 
ercise I  shouM  find  peace." 

"  Do  not  think  it.  Human  passions  are 
the  same  on  either  side  a  monastery  wall." 

"  Then  it  would  free  my  mother,  to  whom 


this  wandering  about  the  Continent  is  very 

irksome." 

"  She  would  prefer  any  thing  to  your  en- 
tering a  monastery,  —  you  may  be  sure  of 
that.  The  idea  is  too  horrible  I  it  is  pre- 
posterous !  " 

"  ^Vlly  is  it  horrible  ?  Do  you  think 
that  lives  of  prayer  and  meditation  cannot 
be  acceptable  to  God  ?  That  is  the  narrow 
Protestant  view." 

"  I  do  not  say  '  cannot ; '  1  doubt  wiiether 
they  generally  are.  There  may  be  cases 
where  a  man,  from  temperament  or  circum- 
stances, is  fit  for  no  active  work  in  this 
world.  Such  is  not  your  case.  If  you  re- 
mained on  your  sofa  for  years,  your  mind 
would  work.  It  is  doing  so  now,  in  an  un- 
healthy way,  upon  this  subject  of  religion. 
That  will  riirht  itself  in  time.  Shut  vour- 
self  up  in  a  convent,  and  you  will  be  wretch- 
ed and  self-condemned  for  the  remainder  of 
your  days  !  " 

She  grew  quite  eloquent  upon  this  theme. 
Then,  as  regarded  a  change  of  faith,  she 
said,  in  forcible  terms,  not  wholly  free  from 
sarcasm,  that,  in  order  to  be  converted,  it 
was  well  to  understand  clearly  what  one 
was  to  be  converted  from,  as  well  as  what 
one  proposed  being  converted  to.  Was  I 
quite  sure  that  I  understood  the  great  work 
of  the  Reformation,  and  the  principles  then 
established  ?  I  had  been  dabbling  in  the 
fathers,  and  floundering  through  controver- 
sial works  by  eminent  Romanists,  placed  in 
my  hand  by  my  prit'stly  friend.  But  what 
had  I  read  upon  the  other  side  ?  Only  a 
few  evangelical  tracts  ! 

The  result  of  this  and  of  other  subsequent 
conversations  was  to  make  me  feel  ashamed 
of  the  precipitancy  with  which  I  had  well- 
nigh  abjured  the  religion  of  my  fathers, 
because  I  virtually  knew  nothing  of  it. 
Madame  d'Arnheim  had  read  a  great  deal, 
and  to  some  purpose.  She  could  give  a  rea- 
son for  the  faith  that  was  in  her ;  and  though, 
as  with  many  of  her  countrymen,  the  limits 
of  that  faith  were  difficult  to  define,  its  basis 
was  firmly  rooted.  I  have  heard  her  views 
called  '•  rationalistic,"  "  pantheistic,"  and  a 
number  of  other  hard  names.  I  only  know 
they  were  free  from  intolerance,  which  is 
not  always  a  characteristic  of  liberal  tenets  ; 
and  the  exposition  of  them,  thou'j;h  too  va- 
gue to  satisfy  the  requirements  of  any  rigid 
theologian,  was  more  beneficial  to  me  at  this 
juncture  than  closer  reasoning,  which  did 
not  admit  of  a  divergence  of  opinions,  woidd 
have  proved.  ^Madame  d'Aruheitn's  was 
essentially  the  subjective  German  tone  of 
mind  :  its  enthusiasm  was  not  to  be  kin- 
dled by  outward  a[)peals  to  the  senses. 
Yearning  after  the  infinite,  the  sense  of 
spiritual  needs,  not  to  be  satisfieil  by  "  au- 
thoritv,"  have  been  tartrets  for  reprobation 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


169 


or  ridicule  for  well-ni2;h  a  century  past; 
bat  none  the  less,  they  indicate  a  deeper 
thoughtedness  than  is  shown  by  the  jris- 
sionate  credulity  which  bows,  unquestion- 
ing, to  any  new  dogma  imposed  by  one 
man  upon  others.  She  could  have  become 
any  thing,  or  nothing,  sooner  than  Ru- 
mau  Catholic  ;  but  her  sympathies  were  too 
wide  not  to  embrace  every  form  of  earnest 
human  aspiration  :  and  therefore  I  could 
talk  to  her  more  openly  than  would  have 
been  possible  with  any  one  dilferently  coh- 
stituted. 

From  that  day  forwai'ds  tliere  was  a 
great  change  in  my  life.  By  some  means 
or  other,  it  was  contrived  that  Madame 
d'Arnheim  should  be  my  almost  constant 
companion.  That  this  was  by  my  mother's 
express  wish  and  contrivance  there  could 
be  no  doubt.  She  had  been  presented  to 
the  royal  lady  up  stairs,  who  was  charmed 
with  her  beauty  and  distinction,  and  read- 
ily accepted  her  as  a  substitute  for  Her 
Ilighness's  ordinary  companion  in  her  daily 
drives,  when  the  nature  of  the  case  was 
explained  to  her  by  IMadame  d'Arnheim. 
ThenJ  after  a  while,  I  was  ]iersuaded  to  ac- 
cept the  duchess's  kind  invitatiou  to  mo  to 
pass  the  evenings  in  her  salon ;  and  was 
carried  up-stairs  in  an  Algerine  horse-rug, 
swung  like  a  hammock  between  Joe  and 
our  Niceois  service.  The  duchess,  a  small, 
vivacious  woman,  dressed  with  a  simplicity 
bordering  on  shabbiness,  would  come  to  the 
door  herself  to  greet  me,  and  punch  the 
pillow  of  the  sofa  where  I  was  to  lie,  and 
draw  a  chair  near  to  it,  and,  affluent  of  im- 
perfect English,  inundate  me  with  cordial 
inquiries  after  my  health. 

She  was  a  warm-hearted,  self-willed  little 
lady ;  resolute  to  carry  out,  no  matter  at 
what  cost,  that  which  she  had  set  her  mind 
to  accomplish ;  liking  every  one  to  be 
happy  about  her,  but  happy  in  her  way. 
Given  certain  seeds,  such  a  character  was 
the  inevitable  outgrowth  of  royal  nature. 
She  was  an  enthusiast  about  talent  and 
beauty,  and  only  cared  to  be  surrounded 
by  what  was  attractive  to  the  mind  or  to 
the  eye.  Every  evening,  she  and  my 
mother,  and  the  select  few  who  were  admit- 
ted to  tliese  informal  receptions,  drew  round 
the  fire,  and  the  ladies  knitted  and  the 
men  talked,  while  I  lay  on  the  sofa  in  the 
corner,  close  to  the  table  where  Madame 
d'Arnheim  made  tea. 

I  needed  such  a  friend  more  than  any 
thing,  at  once  to  sooth  and  to  rouse  me. 
Hopeless  brooding  over  my  temporal  mis- 
fortunes, restless  introspection,  and  doubt 
as  to  my  theological  wants,  —  between 
these,  my  mind  had  been  shut  up,  breath- 
ing the  same  air,  and  feeding  upon  itself 
foi^  months.     Its   mouldy   chambers  were 


now  ventilated  by  the  sunshine  of  sym- 
pathy, and  the  {'vaQ  wind  of  discussion.  I 
shrank  still  from  all  "  society  ;  "  I  took  no 
part  in  the  general  conversation  that  went 
on  in  the  duchess's  drawing-room  ;  but  I 
grew  more  and  more  dependent  on  Ma- 
dame d'Arnhcim's  companionship.  — more 
and  more  to  look  for  her  coming,  to  miss 
her  when  absent,  and  to  regard  with  dread 
the  prospect  of  our  approaching  separation. 
For  here  is  the  beginning  of  May,  and,  in 
ten  days'  time  the  duchess  is  going  to  fly 
from  the  coming  heat  into  Switzerland : 
and  we  are  to  return  to  England,  —  prob- 
ably by  sea,  from  Marseilles. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

TfiE  idea  of  returning  to  England  was 
most  distasteful  to  me.  The  only  faces  by  a 
sight  of  which  I  should  have  been  gladdened 
would  have  left  its  shores  before  I  reached 
them.  Francis  wrote  that  he  and  Elizabeth, 
with  Mrs.  Everett:,were  leaving  Enudand,  on 
a  lengthened  cruise  in  a  large  schooner  my 
cousin  had  bought,  with  the  hope  of  sailing 
round  the  world  !  For  the  summer  months,, 
however,  their  wanderings  were  to  be  con- 
fined to  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 

The  Hamleighs'  name  was  seldom  or 
never  mentioned  between  my  mother  and 
me.  I  heard  that  they  were  in  London, 
and  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place  in 
June  ;  and  I  heard  no  more. 

"  The  duchess  suggests  our  going  to  Paris, 
and  your  consulting  Nelaton,"  said  my 
mother,  one  morning. 

"  Is  site  going  there  ?  "   I  asked  quickly. 

"  No :  she  goes  to  Switzerland  direct ; 
but,  if  Nelaton  approves,  we  may  follow 
her  there  later.  The  first  thing  is  to  have 
his  opinion  on  your  case." 

"  1  don't  much  care  —  any  thing  you 
like.  He  won't  do  me  any  good,  and  I'd 
rather  by  half  go  to  Switzerland  at  once ; 
but  if  you  wish  it  "  — 

"  I  think  it  the  right  thing  to  do,"  said 
my  mother  quietly.  "  You  have  had  no  first- 
rate  opinion  for  months  ;  and  therefore,  as 
you  do  not  object,  I  will  write  to-day  for 
rooms  at  Meurice's." 

Madame  d'Arnheim  and  I  jiarted, 
buoyed  up  (I  speak  for  myself)  by  the  hope 
of  meeting  again  before  long.  The  duchess 
talkedof  passing  most  of  the  summer  in  the 
Engadine,  and  I  told  my  friend  that  I  was 
resolved  we  shoukl  follow  her  there.  What, 
or  at  least  how  nmch  she  felt,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  say.  She  took  my  hand  in  silence, 
and  then  said,  after  a  pause,  — 

"  Whether  we   uaeet  again  or  not,  you 


170 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


know  that  my  first  prayer,  nitilit  and  morn- 
ing, will  be  for  your  recovery." 

It  was  the  middle  of  July.  I  had  been 
six  .weeks  at  AVildbad,  where  the  French 
SU1  "icons  had  sent  me,  and  was  now  at  St. 
JNloritz;  but  I  was  no  lon<j::cr  the  same 
man.  I  liad  given  but  little  heed  to  Nela- 
ton's  opinion  that  these  mineral  baths 
would  prove  very  beneficial.  Even  when 
my  mother  and  Joe  declared  that  the  im- 
provement was  daily  visible,  I  refused  to 
credit  it  myseltl  When  the  day  came,  how- 
ever, that  I  raised  myself  from  my  couch 
without  pain,  and  crawled  round  the  room 
supported  by  Joe,  I  shall  never  forget  my 
sensations.  I  had  fallen  back  into  the 
slough  of  despond  as  soon  as  Madame 
d'Arnheim's  presence  had  passed  away,  and 
I  was  left  alone  with  ni)'  mother.  The 
prosjiect  of  restoration  to  health  came  like 
a  rush  of  waters  on  a  thirsty  land.  In  re- 
gaining the  partial  use  of  my  limbs,  I  felt 
that  I  regained  something  of  the  courage 
wliich  had  so  miserably  failed  me  of  late. 

In  the  middle  of  July,  the  doctor's  com- 
mending the  plan  (which  I  had  resolved, 
whether  they  approved  or  not,  to  carry  out), 
we  rejomed  the  duchess  and  Madame 
d'Arnheim  at  St.  Moritz.  After  the  absti- 
nence from  all  sympathetic  society,  the 
sight  of  my  friend  did  me  as  much  good  as 
the  bracing  air  of  that  salubrious  valley. 
Her  face  beamed  with  silent  joy  when  she 
saw  the  wonderful  improvement  that  a  few 
weeks  had  wrought  in  me. 

Our  life  was  conducted  on  this  wise  :  my 
mother  left  me  more  than  ever  novf,  to  the 
companionship  of  Madame  d'Arnheim.  She 
and  I  sat  out  on  the  terrace,  overlooking 
the  lake,  which  led  from  our  suite  of  rooms 
at  the  Kulm  Hotel  (and  was  upon  the  roof 
of  those  occupied  by  the  duchess),  a  great 
part  of  the  day.  Sometimes  we  made  ex- 
cursions in  "  Einspanners,"  when — each 
crazy  little  vehicle  containing  only  two  per- 
sons —  Madame  d'Arnheim  always  accom- 
panied me,  while  my  mother  went  with  the 
duchess.  The  ardent  friendship  of  the 
latter  for  her  new  English  acquaintance  in- 
creased daily.  My  mother  was  one  of 
those  women  who  inspire  more  enthusiastic 
admiration  in  their  own  sex  than  among 
men.  The  royal  lady  was  an  impassioned 
partisan.  She  had  proved  so  when  she 
espoused  Madame  d'Arnheim's  cause  so 
warmly,  as  she  now  did  my  mother's.  The 
latter  was  a  saint,  —  a  creature  perfect  as 
she  was  beautiful,  who  had  suffered  most 
cruelly.  The  feeling  of  a  son  for  such  a 
mother  should  be  one  of  adoration.  This 
she  was  never  weary  of  repeating. 

Her  circle  was  exclusive,  but  she  re- 
ceived every  evening  tjje  visits  of  the  lew 


persons  of  distinction  who  were  at  St. 
Moritz.  Her  most  frequent  visitor  was  a 
semi-royal  Wallachian  ]M-ince,  named  Orso- 
va,  a  puissantly  rich  widower,  who  had  ab- 
dicated certain  territorial  rights  in  favor  of 
his  son,  but  retained  liis  enormous  funded 
property,  and  spent  his  winters  in  Paris, 
his  summers  in  travel.  He  was  somewhat 
under  sixty,  and  was  an  imposing-looking 
personage,  though  too  much  "  made  up," 
and  somewhat  too  rigid  in  carriage  and 
manner  to  satisfy  an  Englishman's  ideal  of 
nobility.  But  he  was  said  to  be  agreeable 
—  that  is,  the  duchess  and  my  mother  said 
so  ;  for  I  saw  too  little  of  him,  either  then 
or  afterwards,  to  be  able  to  judge.  He 
passed  most  evenings  in  the  duchess's  xalon  ; 
I  seldom  went  there,  unless  driven  in  from 
the  terrace  by  the  cold.  We  had  a  spell 
of  glorious  weather  just  then.  The  blue 
and  golden  days  deepened  into  fiery  sunsets, 
and  then  suddenly  melted  away  into  the 
clear  dai'k  of  starlight,  and  I  lay  upon  the 
terrace,  watching  the  purple  shadows  steal 
up  the  pine-clad  hills,  drink  in  the  molten 
glory  on  the  rocks,  the  rosy  flush  upon  the 
snow.  Then  the  reflections  died  out  in  the 
blue-green  mirror  below  me,  and  lights  be- 
gan to  twinkle  from  the  Kurhaus  in  the 
valley,  a  mile  and  a  half  away. 

It  was  on  such  an  afternoon  and  evening 
as  this,  about  three  weeks  after  our  arrival, 
that  the  conversation  I  recall  with  distinct- 
ness took  place.  All  through  the  hotel 
was  the  distant  bustle  of  parties  returning 
from  the  day's  expeditions  to  the  Bernina,  or 
Mortratsch  Glacier.  I  could  hear  them  dis- 
cussing their  prowess  in  climbing,  or  their 
various  adventures,  on  the  loggia  or  terrace 
below  me.  There  was  the  roystering  Ital- 
ian, who  drove  his  four  horses,  and  banged 
away  so  lustily  at  the  piano  every  evening  ; 
and  that  untiring  English  family,  with 
green  tin  cases  strapped  round  them,  like  so 
many  Cupids  with  quivers,  climbing  every 
accessible  height  after  the  Flora  of  the 
Engadlne,  with  an  energy  that  Love  him- 
self might  have  envied ;  these,  and  the 
spectacled  Professor's  family  from  Berlin, 
and  the  five  Dutch  girls,  —  I  knew  them 
all  by  sight ;  and  I  heard  them  discoursing 
in  tkeir  divers  tongues. 

"  Listen  to  those  people,"  I  said.  "  I 
wonder  if  I  should  make  such  a  row  as  that 
if  I  ever  got  to  the  top  of  Pitz  Languard  — 
which  I  never  shall  ?  " 

"  ^Vhy  should  you  not  ?  "  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim looked  up  from  her  knitting  with  a 
smile  of  encouragement.  "  You  impi-ove 
now  every  day.  You  scarcely  leant  at  all, 
to-day  in  walking  up  and  down." 

"  I  couldn't  do  without  your  arm,"  I  said, 
shaking  my  head.  "  Did  I  repeat  Joe's 
flattering  witticism,  that  you  were  the  only 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


171 


woman  as  ever  he  knew'd  that  could  be  de- 
pended on  ?  "  And  I  added  gloomily 
"  Perhaps  he  is  right." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
said,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  — 

"  One  of  the  kvr  real  pleasures  in  life  is 
to  feel  that  one  is  of  use.  It  is  the  only  one 
I  have  left." 

"  Nobody  knows  what  it  is  to  me  now 
to  have  a  friend  to  whom  I  can  open  my 
whole  heart.  Between  my  mother  and  me 
there  never  was,  there  never  can  be,  any 
confidence  ;  and  when  I  think,  that,  for  all 
the  remainder  of  my  life  " —  Here  I  broke 
off.        - 

"  I  can  guess  what  you  leave  unsaid."' 
Madame  d'Arnheim  bent  her  head  a  little 
lower  •  over  her  knitting.  "  Has  it  ever 
occurred  to  you  that  Lady  Rachel  might 
marry  again  V  " 

"  Never  as  a  serious  probability.  What 
do  you  mean  ?  You  don't  mean  that  — 
that  vou  thii>k  there  is  a  chance  of  such  a 
thing?" 

"  It  would  not  surprise  me —  that  is  all," 
she  replied  carelessly.  "  By  the  by,  I  sus- 
pect she  has  had  news  from  England  to-day 
which  annoyed  her.  Has  she  told  you  of 
it?" 

"  She  rarely  tells  me  any  thing  of  her 
letters.     "What  makes  you  think  this  ?  " 

"  She  talks  to  the  duchess  more  or  less 
unreservedly,  I  believe,  and  she  was  speak- 
ing to-day  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand, 
when  I  entered  the  room.  She  stopped 
short,  but  not  before  I  had  heard  her  say, 
'  It  is  too  provoking,  when  I  had  hoped '  — 
what,  I  know  not.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
Miss  Penruddocke  might  be  going  to  be 
married,  as  you  told  me  what  your  mother's 
wishes  had  been  in  that  quarter." 

"  I  should  hope  they  were  at  an  end.  I 
can  scarcely  think  my  mother's  words  had 
reference  to  Elizabeth,  for  she  is  abroad ; 
but  she  is  always'  hatching  some  scheme  in 
her  head." 

Madame  d'Arnheim  laid  down  her  knit- 
ting, and  looked  across  the  lake  into  the 
bosom  of  the  blue-green  hills  and  fissured 
rocks  opposite,  as  though  she  sought  there 
the  solution  of  some  difficult  problem.  Her 
lips  were  pressed  tight ;  her  pale  eyes 
never  moved  ;  the  breeze  stirred  the  fluffy 
hair  upon  her  brow ;  I  watched  her  with 
curiosity  for  some  minutes  ;  she  was  abso- 
lutely motionless.  At  last  she  said,  speak- 
ing rn  a  low,  distinct  voice,  — 

"  And  why  should  this  scheme  not  be 
hatched  ?  Now  that  your  hopes  in  another 
direction  are  at  an  end,  do  you  never  think 
of  ElizabeUi  ?  It  would  be  what  is  called 
a  '  suitable  '  marriage." 

"  In'o,  —  she  is  a  grand  creature,  but  we 
are  not  suited,  and  we  should  neiiher  of  us 


be  happy.  Elizalieth  has  not  the  sympa- 
thy and  repose  which  are  what  I  should 
seek  tor  now  in  a  wife  ;  and  she  \rould  not 
be  satisfied  with  the  only  kind  of  love  I 
could  give  her." 

"  Your  feelings  are  much  changed,  even 
within  a  few  weeks,"  said  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim in  a  low  voice.  "  They  may  change 
yet  more.  As  you  regain  strength  and  en- 
ergy, repose  may  not  seem  to  you  the  one 
thing  needful." 

"  INIy  nature  is  not  changed.  I  feel 
about  marriage,  as  I  have  done  ever  since 
I  thought  about  it  at  all.  Few  men,  I  be- 
lieve, marry  their  first  loves,  —  the  only 
deep  and  passionate  attachment  of  their 
lives  ;  and  I  am  no  exception  to  the  rule  : 
but  the  marriage  of  expediency  is  utterly 
abhorrent  to  me.  Two  sorts  of  union  are 
possible  in  my  eyes,  and  only  two.  If  a 
man's  wife  cannot  be  the  mistress  of  his 
imagination,  at  least  she  must  be  the  friend 
and  confidant  of  his  thoughts.  That  is 
what,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  I  call  '  re- 
pose.' " 


CHAPTER   LX. 

OxE  afternoon  the  duchess  made  a  party 
to  drink  tea  and  whipped  cream  at  Siltz 
Maria,  —  some  Italians,  Prince  Orsova,  and 
ourselves.  They  spread  a  plaid  for  me  on 
the  grass,  under  a  tree,  at  the  outskirt  of 
the  village,  where  I  could  see  the  matchless 
view,  while  they  all,  with  the  exception  of 
Madame  d'Arnheim,  wandered  up  the  hill 
to  the  chapel,  before  assembling  at  the  vil- 
lage inn  for  tea.  JNIadarae  d'Arnheim  took 
up  her  position  near  me  with  a  book,  while 
I  made  a  lame  effort  to  sketch  the  moun- 
tains opposite  me.  I  was  roused  by  seeing 
my  companion  fling  down  her  book  with  an 
indignant  gesture  on  the  ground. 

"  What  are  you  reading  that  makes  you 
so  angry  ?  "  I  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  yes,  —  I  am  angry.  It  is  a 
French  book,  and  by  a  woman  !  —  a  woman 
of  genius  too,  —  George  Sand.  It  makes 
me  mad  I " 

"What  is  it  about?" 

"  A  woman,  who  is  held  up  to  one's  ad- 
miration,—  the  cleverest  and  most  charm- 
ing of  our  sex.  Her  grandeur  of  character 
is  shown  by  simulating  a  passion  for  a  man 
she  cares  nothing  about,  and  becoming  his 
mistress,  in  order  to  disenchant  the  man 
she  really  loves,  and  who  loves  her  !  " 

"  But  why  ?  AVhy,  if  they  are  both  of 
one  mind  should  they  not  marry  ?  " 

"  Because  she  is  many  years  older,  and 
she  believes  it  is  only  a  Ijoy's  fiincy,  on  his 
part.     So  far  she  is  right.     He  very  soon 


172 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


falls  in  love  with  another  woman.  She 
might  have  left  the  distriet.  where  her  joimif 
lover  is  bound  to  remain  ;  hut  this  would  nut 
have  involved  a  gross  outrage  of  all  moral 
sense  (I  might  say  all  truth  and  purity),  so 
dear  to  Freneh  iaiaginatiou  I  " 

'•  Perhaps  she  would  have  done  better  to 
have  married  him  ? "  said  I,  looking  fur- 
tively into  her  face.  "  Was  she  quite  sure 
that  it  was  tor  his  good  ?  " 

'■  The  event  jiroved  her  right,"  she  re- 
plied (luiekly.  Then,  gazing  up  to  the  sky. 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  she  added,  '•  God 
knows,  I  can  understand  sacrifice,  —  the 
sacrifice  of  every  hojie  tor  the  sake  of  an- 
other's ultimate  happiness,  —  but  not  thus. 
3t  is  monstrous  ! " 

"  And  yet,  putting  the  morality,  — 
that  is,  one  sort  of  morality,  —  aside,  is  it 
wo'.'se  than  what  is  done  daily,"  I  said 
gloomily,  —  "a  girl  sacrificing  herself  at 
the  altar,  for  money  and  position,  without 
the  generous  excuse  of  Madame  Sand's 
heroine?  " 

"  It  is  immeasurably  worse.  You  know 
I  feel  strongly  as  to  the  folly  and  weakness 
of  such  a  marriage  as  you  speak  of,"  ?he 
returned  pointedly ;  '•  but  God  forbid  that 
I  should  class  it  for  a  moment  with  a  hor- 
ror like  this !  A  girl  may  go  to  the  altar 
under  the  mistaken  notion  that  it  is  her 
duty,  jiromising  to  ])rove  a  true  wife  to  the 
man  she  does  not  love  d'amour,  and  keep 
that  vow ;  but  what  good  can  come  of  such 
double-distilled  evil  as  this?  Here  comes 
your  mother." 

"  And  Orsova.  What  a  handsome  man 
he  is  for  his  age  !  She  says  he  is  very 
agreeable.     Do  you  like  him  V  " 

"  I  know  but  little  of  him,"  she  replied, 
looking  away.  "  lie  never  honors  me  with 
his  conversation.  The  duchess  says  he  is 
clever." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  I  presently,  as  I 
watched  the  two  descend  the  hillside,  my 
mother  leaning  the  tips  of  her  beautiful  fin- 
gers on  the  prince's  arm,  and  smiling 
calmly  from  time  to  time  at  his  conversa- 
tion, which  seemed  to  flow  on  uninterrupt- 
edly, —  "  do  you  know,  if  the  idea  were  not 
absurd,  connected  with  my  lady,  I  should 
say  there  was  a  little,  just  a  very  little,  flir- 
tation going  on  there." . 

"  Should  you  V  "  said  my  friend  calmly. 
She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  and  seemed 
about  to  add  something,  but  changed  her 
mind. 

"  I  take  it  he  is  not  a  man  of  much 
energy  and  action,"  I  observed.  "  Other- 
wise, at  his  age,  he  would  not  give  up  his 
estates  to  his  son." 

"  He  is  not  a  man  of  decmon,  at  all 
events,"  she  said,  witli  just  the  shadow  of  a 
smile  (and  at  the  time  I  did  not  know  what 


she  meant);  "but  that  sort  of  character 
suits  some  women  better  than  a  stronger 
will." 

"  You  know  him  very  little,  you  say,  and 
yet  vou  think  you  read  his  character.  How 
Is  tint  V" 

"  I  flatter  myself  I  have  some  observa- 
tion ;  or  peraaps  I  should  call  it  a  wo- 
man's gift,  —  intuition." 

"  And  what  does  your  intuition  tell  you 
about  this  AVallachian  ?  " 

"  Oh  I  my  intuition  is  like  the  antennas 
of  an  insect,  —  of  no  use  to  any  one  but 
myself." 

"  But  one  insect  probes  the  way  for  oth- 
ers," I  replied,  laughing.  "  If  this  fellow  is 
such  a  fiiend  of  my  mamma's,  I  may  as 
well  have  the  benefit  of  your  lights  upon 
him.'' 

"  He  is  quite  harmless  ;  don't  be  afraid. 
He  has  no  heart,  but  plenty  of  amiability, 
which  is  more  available  coin,  you  Icnow, 
for  general  circulation.  His  vanity  is  inor- 
dinate ;  and  yet  he  has  no  reliance  on  his 
own  judgment.  Self  is  the  central  planet 
in  his  system,  but  that  does  not  prevent  a 
number  of  good  little  stars  in  their  way 
from  revolving  round  it,  —  liberality,  easy 
temper,  and  so  on.  A  clever  talker,  I  dare 
say ;  but  shallow,  that  I  am  sure.  A  man 
who  lives  tor  the  amusement  of  the  hour, 
now  that  ho  is  sixty,  as  he  did  forty  years 
ago  ;  who  hates  all  trouble  or  responsibility. 
There,  that  is  what  my  antennae  tell  me." 

"  Perhaps  they  tell  you  something  of  the 
same  sort  of  me  V  "  said  I,  with  a  sigh.  "  I 
am  weak,  and  selfish  too,  I  am  afraid  ;  and 
I,  too,  have  given  up  my  inheritance,  which 
must  look  to  you  like  a  shrinking  from 
responsibility  ?  " 

'•  No,  I  quite  understand  it.  You  have 
been  weak,  but  then  you  showed  strength 
and  moral  courage.  It  was  weak  to  be 
carried  away  by  a  current  which  I  warned, 
vou  was  dangerous  ;  and  just  as  weak  to 
want  to  bury  yourself  in  a  monastery,  be- 
cause you  were  hurt  in  body  and  mind  ; 
but  you  are  still  almost  a  boy,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile :  '•  and  have  all  life  before 
you." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"If  left  to  myself,  I  may  sink  into  the 
same  morbid  state  again." 

"Nonsense!"  she  said,  turning  away; 
and  her  voice  shook  as  she  spoke.  "  You 
know  I  cannot  always  be  near  you.  We 
shall  soon  have  to  part  now." 

The  prince  and  my  mother  here  joined 
us,  and  our  conversation  was  not  renewed ; 
but  from  that  day  I  date  the  birth  of  the 
idea  which  grew  up  —  in  spite  of  discour- 
agement—  within  me:  the  idea  that  I 
would  ask  Marie  d'Arnheim  to  divorce  her 
husband,  and  become  my  wife.     She  knew 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


173 


me  better  than  anv  one  in  tlie  world,  and 
in  her  sympathy  alone  did  I  find  any  con- 
solation now.     If  she  consented  to  be  mine, 
it  would   be  with    full    knowledge    of  the 
fact  that  the  love  of  ray  young  heart  was 
buried  forever,  that  I  valued  her  beyond 
every  other  woman  now,  and  that  her  com- 
panionship  might  save  me  from  despond- 
ency, or  worse ;  this,  she  could  not  fail  to 
believe.     Was  I  justified  in  asking  her  to 
relinquish  a  worthless  husband,  who  desired 
nothing  so  much  as  to  be  free,  and  to  be- 
come   mine,    under   these    circumstances  V 
Thence  arose  my  doubt   and    discourage- 
ment.     Did    the    demon    of    selfishness 
prompt  me  to  demand  a  sacrifice,  when  I 
had  so  little  to  give  in  return  ?     And  yet, 
I  could  not  remain  blind  to  the  flict  which 
each  day  made  more  apparent,  that  I  was 
the    first    object    of    Marie    d'Arnheim's 
thoughts  and  solicitude.     She  had  a  volu- 
minous correspondence  during  those  weeks 
—  important    looking    documents    arrived 
daily  (upon  family  business,  she  said),  de- 
manding  well-digested    replies ;    but    she 
wrote  them  all  upon  the  terrace,  sitting  be- 
side  my   sofa.      The   letters   must   suffer, 
rather  than  I.    My  mother  was  more  charm- 
ing than  ever  in  her  manner  to  her ;    no 
.  one  could  have  believed  that  the  woman 
on  whom  she  lavished  every  outward  tes- 
timony of  regard  and  gratitude,  was  the 
same  one  touching  whose  character  Lady 
Rachel    had    entertained    such    injurious 
doubts   a   year  before.     She  now  evinced 
the   most   perfect   confidence   in  Madame 
d'Arnheim,    and   constantly   averred    that 
the  removal  of  that  terrible  cloud  which 
had  so  long  hung  over  my  spirits,  and  my 
beina   saved   from   Romanism,   were    due 
solely  to  her. 

But  this  state  of  things  could  not  go  on 
forever.  The  w^eks  fiew  by.  The  duch- 
ess's departure  to  Germany  began  to  be 
talked  of.  What  did  separation  mean  to 
each  of  us  ?  To  myself,  I  knew  but  too 
■well  what  it  meant,  and  I  could  not  doubt 
that  to  her  it  was  the  deprivation  of  the 
chief  interest  in  a  desolated  life.  She  had 
said  so ;  and  I  felt  that  what  she  had  said 
was  the  truth.  If  we  could  mutually  con- 
sole each  other — if  such  measure  of  loyal 
aiFection  as  mine  could  satisfy  her  in  the 
long  years  to  come,  why  should  I  hesitate  V 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

It  was  a  glorious  day  towards  the  end 
of  August.  Marie  and  I  had  driven  in  an 
"  liinspanner  "  to  the  INIaloja  Pass.  We 
lay  upon  a  slope  of  fine,  short  turf,  a  shep- 
herd's broad-caved  hut  of  pine-wood  upon 
one  side,  the  tumbling  waters  of  the  inn 


upon  the  other ;  before  us,  rising  up  into 
the  clear  expanse  of  blue,  the  jagged  sum- 
mits of  gold-gray  rock,  with  every  fissure 
traced  in  violet  shadow,  and  the  silver 
thread  of  a  cascade  gleaming  down  their 
face ;  and  tar,  far  below,  the  winding  road 
into  Italy,  flung  like  a  ribbon  through  the 
mountain  defile  that  guards  the  entrance 
to  that  land  of  promise. 

On  such  a  day  the  air  in  these  regions, 
though  permeated  with  sunlight,  retains 
that  thin  edge  which  has  been  sharpened 
in  jjassing  over  the  neighboring  snow. 
Everv  distant  bleat  and  goat-bell  is  heard 
with  curious  distinctness.  To-day  there 
arose  a  conl'used  murmur  of  many  things  : 
the  river  rushing  over  stones,  the  wrangling 
of  drivers  round  the  inn-door,  a  cow-herd 
singing  in  some  high-up  pasture,  the  tin- 
kling bells  of  many  beasts,  as  yet  unseen, 
descendino;  to  their  vallevs  for  the  nisht. 
There  was  just  enough  of  life  to  enhance 
the  sense  of  enjoyment,  and  of  peace,  as  we 
sat  there,  in  perfect  silence,  for  more  than 
half  an  hour.  It  was  she  who  broke  it  at 
last,  with  a  sigh, — 

"  In  another  week  you  will  be  down 
there,  among  the  vineyards,  and  we  shall 
be  speeding  northwards  to  our  cold  father- 
land. Ach  !  how  quickly  the  weeks  have 
sped ! " 

"  Marie,"  I  said  after  a  pause  —  it  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  called  her  by  her 
name  —  "it  is  for  you  to  decide  whether 
we  shall  part  or  not." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
a  startled  look. 

'■  I  mean  that  the  life  you  and  I  have 
been  leading  is  a  nearer  approach  to  hap- 
piness than  I  believed  to  be  possible  for  me 
a  few  months  back.  You  know  what  I  was, 
and  what  I  never  can  be  again.  You  are 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  now  I  could 
ever  ask  to  be  my  wife.  Can  you  consent 
to  come  and  inhabit  a  battered  ruin, 
Marie  V  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
was  silent ;  but  her  whole  frame  quivered. 
I  continued,  after  a  pause,  — 

"  You  have  not  yielded  hitherto  to  D'Arn- 
heim's wish  for  a  divorce,  I  know,  but 
every  moral  tie  between  you  is  snapped  ; 
and  )ou  can  be  legally  fi-eed  to-morrow." 

She  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  seemed 
about  to  reply,  but  hesitated.  Alter  a  few 
minutes'  pause,  she  said  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  not  deceiv- 
ing yourself —  and  me  ?  You  have  a  warm, 
generous  heart.  You  pity  my  cruel  posi- 
non,  and  you  are  grateful  for  the  deej)  in- 
terest I  take  in  you  ;  but  your  wife  — ach  ! 
I  shall  be  an  old  woman  while  you  are 
still  a  young  man.     It  would  be  sacrificing 


you  ;  no  —  no,  it  must  not  be." 


174 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


"  I  am  old  before  my  time  ;  the  sacrifice 
is  on  your  side ;  you  become  a  garde-malade, 
I  am  afraid.  If  von  love  me  well  enouLib 
not  to  slirink  from  sucli  a  prospect"  — 

"I  love  you  better  tban  any  tliinif  in  tbe 
rvorld,"  sbe  interrupted;  and  tbe  quick 
passion  of  her  utterance  contrasted  strange- 
ly with  her  habitual  manner.  "  It  is  be- 
cause I  love  you  so  much  that  I  shrink 
from  doino;  you  an  injury." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  think  T  shall 
change?  You  know  me  very  little.  I 
have  weighed  this  step  as  regards  us  both. 
The  love  of  my  youth  is  dead ;  and  you 
have  come  to  me  as  an  angel  of  consola- 
tion. Life,  hitherto,  has  been  a  sad  expe- 
rience to  bolh  of  us.  Can't  we  help  to 
lighten  the  burden  of  what  is  left  of  it,  for 
each  other  ?  " 

"  Have  you  thought  of  what  your  mother, 
and  all  the  world,  will  say,  —  that  I  have 
inveigled  you  into  this?  "  she  asked,  with 
a  bitter  smile. 

"  I  hope,  for  your  peace  of  mind's  sake, 
you  care  as  little  as  I  do  for  what  all  the 
world  says." 

"I  don't  know,  —  I  think  not,  when  it 
affects  one  I  love.  '  A  divorced  woman  ' 
is  a  term  of  great  reproach,  remember." 

"  Does  that  signiiy  to  us  V  We  shall  not 
live  in  ihe  world.  We  have  both  of  us  had 
enough  of  it.  Let  it  talk  as  it  will.  You, 
yourself,  have  no  repugnance  to  a  divorce, 
for_  I  have  heard  you  say,  that,  when  the 
life  of  man  or  wife  is  one  continued  act  of 
perjury,  the  tie  is  far  better  severed." 

"  No,  —  I  have  no  repugnance  to  it,"  she 
replied  slowly,  and  her  cheek  was  suffused 
as  she  spoke. 

"  Why,  then,  do  you  hesitate  ?  D'Arn- 
heira  is  bound,  body  and  soul,  to  another 
woman,  and  is  doing  all  he  can  to  be  free." 

"  I  did  not  say  that  I  hesitated.  It  was 
your  marrying  a  divorced  woman  which  I 
spoke  of  as  disadvantageous  to  you.  As  to 
myself"  —  here  she  paused,  and  seemed 
uncertain  whether  to  pursue  the  subject 
further. 

"  Well,  Marie  ?  Speak  quite  openly,  will 
you  not,  as  to  your  best  friend  ?  " 

She  plucked  at  the  short  warm  grass  on 
which  we  lay,  with  nervous  twitching 
fingers,  before  she  looked  up  into  my  face, 
and  said,  "  You  must  know,  then,  that  I 
am  free,  or  shall  be  so  in  a  few  weeks. 
When  we  left  Nice,  feeling  for  the  first 
time  what  my  love  for  you  really  was,  I 
believed  that  I  ought  no  longer  to  remain 
the  wife  of  another  man.  The  only  argu- 
ment in  favor  of  my  not  relinquishing  my 
husband  was  taken  from  me,  when  I  knew 
that  I  never  could  or  ought  to  return  to 
him.  I  instituted  the  necessary  proceed- 
ings, but  without  naming  it  to  the  duchess, 


or  to  any  one  whom  it  was  not  incumbent 
on  me  to  take  into  my  confidence.  1  knew 
what  a  storm  of  ojiposition  it  would  arouse. 
It  has  already  begun, — I  receive  vehement 
letters  from  mi/  family  and  his  daily,  now 
that  the  afi'air  has  got  wind.  I  must  tell 
the  duchess,  —  there  is  no  longer  any  use 
in  concealment  —  or  perhaps  I  should  not 
have  told  you." 

I  took  the  hand  that  lay  beside  me. 

"  Make  one  avowal  of  it,  INIarie,  and  say 
that  you  are  to  be  my  wife.  I  believe  that 
I  can  make  you  happy.  If  I  did  not  be- 
lieve this,  I  would  never  ask  you  to  be 
mine." 

"  Do  you  remember  George  Sand's 
heroine,  whom  I  told  you  about  the  other 
day  ?  "  she  said  mournfully.  "  She  was 
wise  in  her  resolution  —  yes,  though  her 
conduct  was  horrible  —  indefensible." 

"  Never  mind  precedent ;  think  of  our- 
selves.     Ours  is  an  exceptional  case." 

"  If  you  were,  as  you  were  a  few  months 
ago,  —  believing  yourself  a  hopeless  crip- 
ple, —  then,  indeed,  I  might  be  your  nurse 
through  life :  there  would  be  no  selfish- 
ness in  that.  But,  in  a  year  or  so,  you  will 
be  your  old  self  again  —  and  then  ?  " 

"  Then  I  shall  want  you  more  than  ever, 
to  stir  me  'up  to  work.  I  feel  as  if  some- 
thing was  dead  within  me,  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  rekindle  myself;  and  when  I 
think  of  a  life  spent  alone  with  my  mother, 
I  shudder  !  Marie,  if  you  really  care  for 
me,  as  I  know  you  do,  don't  desert  me  !  " 

Her  tears  fell  fast,  as  I  drew  her  towards 
me,  and  extracted  the  consent  from  her  lips ; 
but  it  was  agreed  that,  for  the  present,  un- 
til the  divorce  was  declared,  our  engagement 
had  best  be  kept  secret. 


CHAPTER  LXIL 

The  next  morning  Marie's  face  was 
slightly  flushed  when  she  came  upon  the 
terrace. 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  We  are  going 
with  you  to  Venice  —  the  duchess  d^'cided 
it  last  night.  I  could  scarcely  believe  her, 
for  joy,  when  she  told  me." 

"  Hurrah  !  What  has  caused  this  sudden 
change  of  plan  ?  " 

"  Can  you  not  be  satisfied  with  the  fact, 
without  asking  for  the  motive  ?  "  she  said, 
with  a  smile,  and  a  little  hesitation  of  man- 
ner. 

"  Not  now,  that  you  excite  my  curiosity." 

"  I  think  I  know  the  motive.  I  am  afraid 
it  will  not  please  you." 

"  So  that  you  do  not  go  back  from  your 
word,  INIarie,  what  can  any  thing  else  signify 
to  me  V  " 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


175 


"  Should  yoa  dislike  your  raotlier's  marry- 
in<T  Prince  Orsova  ?  That  is  what  the  duch- 
ess is  bent  on  efTecting,  I  feel  sure.  She  will 
induce  the  prince  to  accompany  us  to  Ven- 
ice, and  thinks  she  can  brini^  him  to  the 
stickiu'T-point.  You  know  liow  entette  she 
is  when  she  takes  up  an  idea." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  indifierence  to  me.  If 
my  mother  likes  it,  by  all  means.  But  I 
can  scarcely  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
she  would  marry  a  foreigner,  and  a  '  papist,' 
as  she  calls  it.  With  lier  Low-church  ideas, 
— inij)ossible  I  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so ;  but  you  ought  to 
know  best.  She  has  lost  Beaumanoir  ;  she 
knows  how  slight  her  hold  over  you  is.  She 
craves  tor  a  posuion  where  she  will  be  again 
supreriie  ;  and  this  is  what  the  prince  lias  to 
offer  —  position,  and  great  wealth.  The 
question  to  me  is,  will  he  offer  it  ?  " 

'•  Strange  !  "  said  I,  musing.  "  Well, 
perhaps  you  are  right.  But  I  should  like 
to  see  the  faces  of  some  of  her  own  set,  in 
England,  if  the  thing  ever  takes  place.  As 
to  myself,  upod  reflection,  I  shall  be  rather 
gla.i." 

"  I  never  saw  the  duchess  so  keen  about 
any  thing.  The  ascendency  your  mother 
has  gained  over  her  is  extraordinary.  I, 
who  have  known  her  for  years,  have  never 
obtained  the  power  she  has,  —  not  that  I 
am  the  least  jealous,"  she  added,  smiling. 

"  Well,  when  we  marry,"  I  said,  taking 
her  hand  in  mine,  "  my  mother  can  supply 
your  place  with  the  duchess,  if  Orsova  is 
too  wary  a  bird  to  be  caught." 

"  I  have  broken  the  fact  of  my  divorce  to 
the  duchess.  She  was  very  angry,  and 
scolded  me  roundly.  Her  support  and 
countenance,  she  said,  were  given  to  an  ill- 
used  wife,  —  not  to  a  divorced  woman.  I 
told  her  I  was  aware  of  that,  and  was  fully 
prepared  to  return  to  my  family,  as  soon  as 
we  reached  Germany." 

'•  And  how  did  she  take  that  ?  " 

"I  think  she  was  a  little  ashamed  of  her 
vehement  outburst ;  but  she  is  so  little 
accustomed  to  opposition,  that  she  cannot 
understand  it.  Otherwise  she  is  too  kind 
to  wound  me,  —  not  that  any  thing  can 
wound  me  much  to-dav,"  and  her  eves 
beamed  through  her  tears. 

"  Does  my  mother  know  of  the  impend- 
ing divorce  yet  V  " 

"  No,  —  and  mark  my  words,  immedi- 
ately she  learns  it,  as  she  wiM,  of  course, 
from  the  duchess,  you  will  see  a  change  in 
her  manners  towards  me." 

And  so  it  was  ;  scarcely  perceptible,  per- 
haps, to  any  one  who  dicl  not  know  my 
mother  as  1  did  ;  but  I  detected  the  thin 
coat  of  ice  that  checked  the  flow  of  cordi- 
ality, the  glance  of  suspicion  shot  from  time 


to  time  in  Marie's  direction.  There  was 
no  longer  overt  encouragement  to  our  long 
tete-a-tetes  ;  but  these  had  become  so  much 
a  matter  of  course  that  the  sanction  they 
at  first  needed  was  superfluous. 

The  duchess  and  we  left  St.  Moritz  the' 
following  week;  and,  after  spending  a  few 
days  on  the  lake  at  Como,  reached  Venice 
the  second  week  In  September.  Orsova, 
who  was  to  have  accompanied  the  party, 
was  taken  ill  the  night  before  our  depart- 
ure, and,  to  the  duchess's  chagrin,  wrote  to 
say  it  was  impossible  he  could  leave  his 
bed,  but  that,  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to 
travel,  he  would  join  us.  Was  it  a  ruse  to 
emancipate  himself  from  a  fascination  he 
felt  growing  to  be  dangerous?  Or  would 
the  trial  of  absence  only  "  make  the  heart 
grow  fonder,"  and  would  he  appear  at 
Venice  more  completely  subjugated  by  my 
mother's  charms  than  he  had  hitherto 
proved  himself  to  be  ?  These  were  prob- 
lems which  I  have  now  no  doubt  exercised 
my  mother  much,  though  to  the  outward 
eye  she  was  imperturbable ;  and,  at  the 
time,  I  thought  ]\Iarie  d'Arnheim  was  mis- 
taken in  suspecting  my  mother  of  any  seri- 
ous intention  to  cap^n-e  the  Wallachian  by 
a  coup  de  main  ;  but  the  duchess's  demon- 
strative nature  was  incapable  of  conceal- 
ment ;  she  was  "  out  of  sorts "  for  some 
days. 

The  evening  of  our  arrival  at  Danielli's 
Hotel,  we  were  sitting  after  dinner,  —  I 
have  the  room  before  me  now,  with  its 
painted  ceiling,  and  row  of  windows  open- 
ing on  a  balcony  where,  shall  I  confess  it  ? 
the  duchess  was  smoking  a  cigarette  with 
me,  —  when  it  occurred  to  my  mother  to 
ask  for  the  "  Strangei-'s  Book,"  which  was 
brought  to  her  at  the  window,  close  to 
which  we  were.  Marie's  back  was  towards 
us.  She  leant  over  the  balcony,  watching 
the  lemon-colored  sky,  across  which  bars  of 
violet  were  being  rapidly  drawn  and  fast- 
ened together.  The  short-lived  twilight 
had  beiTun,  —  in  a  few  minutes  more  it 
would  be  night.  My  mother  opened  the 
book  upon  her  knee,  and  uttered  an  excla- 
mation, which  caused  me  to  turn  my  head. 

"  What  a  charming  surprise  1  Here  are 
names,  Osmund,  you  will  be  as  glad  to  see 
as  I  am." 

Sh(!  handed  the  book  ;  and  there  I  read 
that  Miss  Penruddocke,  with  Mrs.  Everett, 
and  Mr.  Francis,  had  arrived  at  the  hotel 
the  j»'cvious  day.  The  idea  of  our  meeting 
here  had  never  occurred  to  me,  curious  to 
say,  though  nothing  was  more  likely,  as 
they  had  been  in  the  Mediterranean  ibr  the 
last  three  months  ;  and  Francis's  last  letter, 
some  weeks  since,  had  been  written  from 
Naples.  I  was  genuinely  glad  ;  few  things 
could  give  me  such  unalloyed  delight  at 


176 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


that  moment  as  tbe  prospect  of  seeing  my 
dcarly-lm'ed  I'rieiid.  And  Elizabeth,  too, 
lor  whom  I  always  felt  the  interest  and 
allection  of  a  brother,  it  would  be  a  great 
pleasnri'  to  see  again ;  and  I  ex])ressed 
■this,  in  tlu;  first  heat  of  surprise,  with  my 
wonted  lark  of  reticence. 

The  outburst  of  my  joy  roused  Marie  from 
her  dream  in  the  twilight.  She  turned  and 
asked  the  cause. 

'•The  arrival  of  his  cousin,  Elizabeth 
Penruddocke,"  replied  my  mother. 

"  Ha  !  the  young  person  who  has  the  es- 
tate," said  the  duchess.  "  Brava  !  "  And 
I  saw  her  and  my  mother  exchange  glances. 

'•  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  my  cousin," 
I  said  resolutely ;  "  but  I  shall  be  still  more 
glad  to  see  the  man  who  is  with  her,  —  the 
best  man  who  ever  stepped  this  earth." 

The  courier  entered  at  that  moment, 
bringing  in  letters  for  all  three  ladies  Irom 
the  "  Posta  Restante,"  —  none  for  me.  I 
had  leisure  to  watch  what  etfect  their  cor- 
res])ondence  ])roduced  on  the  faces  of  my 
companions,  while  I  sent  to  inquire  whether 
the  party  occupying  Number  25  salon  were 
at  home. 

My  mother  did  not  move  a  muscle  of  her 
face,  but  I  knew  her  letter  was  not  satis- 
factory, for  all  that ;  though  how  such 
knowl(;dge  came  to  me,  I  should  have  found 
it  difficult  to  say.  IShe  had  not  read  to  the 
end,  however,  when  the  duchess  handed 
the  missive  she  had  impatiently  torn  open 
to  her  friend,  exclaiming,  — 

"  I  know  not  what  to  make  of  it,  —  read, 
ma  chere,  read,  —  is  it  the  truth,  eh  ?  " 

And  my  mother  read  the  proffered  let- 
ter, elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  returned 
it,  with  a  little  shake  of  the  head. 

Marie,  meantime,  looked  up  at  me  from 
a  mass  of  papers  she  was  perusing.  An 
expression  of  ineffable  relief  was  soon  upon 
her  face,  and  she  gave  me  a  scarcely-per- 
ceptible nod  and  smile.  I  knew  what  it 
meant.     She  was  free. 

The  family  of  Number  25  were  gone  to 
the  Piazza  San  Marco,  to  hear  the  band  ; 
but  late  at  night  Francis  came  to  my  bed- 
room, and  I  grasped  once  more  that  strong, 
cordial  hand  in  mine. 

"  This  is  jolly  !  How  glad  I  am  to  see 
you,  dear  old  friend." 

'•  But  to  me,  my  dear  boy,  to  see  you  on 
your  legs  again,  almost  like  your  old  self,  I 
cannot  express  what  delight  this  is  to  me  ! 
And  one  we  so  little  looked  for.  Why  did 
you  not  i)re[)ar(i  me  for  your  meeting  ?  " 

'•  I  had  no  idea  of  it  myself.  You  never 
mentioned  that  Elizabeth  was  coming  to 
Venice  ;  and  our  couung  here  was  a  sudden 
idea  of  my  mother's.     How  is  Lizzie  V  " 

"  Well  in  health;  but  our  foreign  travels 
have  not  worked  the  good  hitherto  that  1 


had  hoped.  The  scenery  and  the  people 
we  have  been  amongst  are  too  tame  to  in- 
terest her  deeply.  She  has  no  feeling  for 
art,  as  you  know.  I  hope  the  savagery  of 
the  desert  may  rouse  her  more.  She  is 
bent  upon  penetrating  as  far  as  possible 
with  safety." 

"  She  knows  we  are  here?  " 

"  She  learnt  it  when  I  did,  —  on  our  re- 
turn to  the  hotel  this  evening." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  After  my 
mother's  absurd  scheming,  I  sliould  not 
feel  surprised  if  Elizabeth  disliked  meeting 
us." 

"  She  would  not  have  sought  the  meet- 
ing herself,  certainly ;  that  you  can  under- 
stand ;  but  since  it  has  come  about  acci- 
dentally, I  feel  sure  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to 
her,  it  it  is  oidy  to  see  you  lookin^i;  as  )ou  do, 
so  dilferent  trom  when  we  parted  two  years 
ago." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  am  won- 
derfully better ;  but  there's  something  gone 
out  of  me  that  can  never  come  back.  I 
shall  never  be  the  same  man  again." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  all  the  better,"  replied 
ray  friend,  witii  a  smile  ;  then  he  continued 
gravely,  "  The  mental  and  bodily  suH'er- 
ing  you  have  experienced  has  wrought  its 
effect ;  it  was  meant  it  should  do  so.  But 
I  know  by  your  letters  that  you  have 
passed  through  the  utterly  despondent 
stage,  and  liave  seized  your  staff  again 
(actually  as  well  as  metaphorically)  with 
courage." 

"  h'  I  have  done  so,  Mr.  Francis,  it  has 
been  the  work  of  a  good  angel  at  my  side." 

He  scanned  my  face  with  his  keen  black 
eyes,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  blue, 
close-shorn  chin,  an  action  which  always 
with  him  indicated  perplexity.  Strange  to 
say,  I  liilt  more  difficulty  in  makinjz;  the 
avowal  of  my  engagement  to  him  than  I 
should  have  done  to  any  one  else  in  the 
world. 

"  Have  you  heard  any  thing  of  her  — 
Lady  Tufton,  I  suppose  I  must  call  her  ?  " 
I  asked,  after  a  pause. 

'•  Not  a  word.  I  wrote  when  we  left 
England,  and  gave  her  '  Naples  '  as  a  safe 
address,  in  case  she  wished  to  write  to  me ; 
but  evidently  she  did  not.  I  have  not  seen 
the  marriage  in  the  paper,  but  I  suppose  it 
took  place  in  July,  as  it  was  announced  it 
would." 

"  Of  course ;  and  what  could  she  write  ? 
She  has  learnt  now  that  writing  is  best  left 
alone,"  I  said,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 
"  That  is  the  only  thing  I  find  it  hard  to 
e.xcuse,  —  her  writing,  after  I  had  released 
her,  to  say  she  should  never  give  me  up 
until  I  returned  the  lock  of  her  hair  I 
always  wear  Acre." 

"Inexplicable!"  ejaculated  Francis. 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


177 


"  You  Ccannot  tell  how  strange  it  is,"  I 
continued,  "  when  some  one  has  been  abso- 
lutely a  part  of  one's  being,  as  she  was  of 
mine,  to  feel  severed  forever  —  never  even 
to  hear  her  name  ;  for  my  mother  talces 
care  never  to  mention  her.  Oh  !  my  friend, 
what  a  fool  I  was  to  set  her  free  !  For  she 
did  care  for  me  —  I  know  it !  But  she  could 
not  withstand  her  mother,  poor  child !  " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  natures  ai-e  diflferentlj'  endowed. 
I  was  sorry  you  wrote,  for  it  was  playing 
into  Mrs.  Hamleigh's  hand.  But  her 
daughter  has  disappointed  me ;  and  this 
wound  will  be  healed  in  time,  Osmund,  I 
feel  sure,  though  it  may  be  long  first." 

"  It  will  never  be  healed  —  never  !  "  said 
I ;  then,  after  a  pause,  looking  up  into  his 
face,  "  and  yet,  what  will  you  say  when 
I  tell  you  I  am  going  to  be  married?  " 

He  looked  me  through  and  through  be- 
fore he  spoke. 

"  I  say,"  he  returned  at  last,  slowly  and 
sternly,  "  that  if  you  marry,  retaining  in 
your  heart  this  passionate  attachment  to 
another,  you  do  wrong,  —  very  wrong. 
How  is  this  ?  " 

I  told  him  every  thing.  I  showed  him 
how  the  woman  who  had  been  my  best 
friend  for  four  years,  whose  interest  in  me 
had  never  wearied  through  all  my  follies, 
and  to  whose  counsel,  had  I  listened,  I 
should  not  be  in  the  plight  I  now  was  —  I 
showed  him  how  this  woman  was  now  deso- 
late in  the  world,  like  myself;  how  Provi- 
dence had  thrown  us  again  together,  and  how 
her  companionship  and  unselfish  devotion 
had  been  the  saving  help  to  my  bruised  spirit. 

"  Do  not  imagine  that  she  is  deceived," 
I  ended  by  saying.  "  She  was  my  confi- 
dant from  the  first.  She  knows  that  no  one 
can  ever  replace  Evelyn  in  my  heart,  and 
she  is  satisfied.  We  have  both  suffered ; 
we  have,  neither  of  us,  any  illusions ;  but 
the  future  may  be  made  more  tolerable  to 
us  both  by  sharing  each  other's  burdens." 

"  God  grant  it  may  be  so  !  "  sighed  Fran- 
cis, after  a  long  pause.  "  But  I  wish  time 
had  tested  your  feelings  before  you  entered 
upon  engagements  so  solemn  and  life-bind- 
ing.    What  does  your  mother  say  to  it  ?  " 

"  She  does  not  yet  know  it.  The  fact  is, 
Madame  d'Arnheim  lias  only  lately  consent- 
ed to  divorce  her  worthless  husband 
and  "  — 

"  Dicorce ! "  almost  shouted  Francis. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  to 
marry  a  divorced  woman  ?" 

"  r  forgot  that  your  church  does  not  rec- 
ognize the  loosening  of  the  marriage  tie," 
said  I,  coloring. 

"  It    is   not    my    church,    boy,    it    is  the 
voice  of  Christ  himself  that  has  pronounced 
against  it,"  he  returned  with  solemnity. 
12 


"  Protestants  do  not  interpret  the  words 
as  you  do." 

"Interpret!  There  is  no  question  of  in- 
terpretation '  Whosoever  shall  marry  her 
that  is  divorced  committeth  adultery.'  How 
can  you  twist  those  words  into  any  other 
meaning  than  that  which  they  bear  upon 
their  iace  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  repeat  that  our  church  per- 
mits such  marriages ;  and  when  two  people 
want  to  be  married,  I  think  the  removal  of 
the  restraint  more  moral  than  its  retention." 

"  Strange,  strange,  —  the  perversity  of 
the  human  heart  !  "  he  murmured  present- 
ly, shaking  his  head.  "  To  reject  a  pure 
young  heart  that  offers  itself,  with  every 
earthly  advantage  to  boot,  and  to  rush 
headlong  into  a  sinful  marriage  with  one 
you  acknowledge  you  do  not  love !  It  is 
past  all  belief  I  I  would  have  cut  off  my 
right  hand,  Osmund,  sooner  than  that  you 
should  have  done  this  thing  1  " 

I  was  greatly  pained.  Though  I  had  felt 
awkward  at  speaking  to  my  friend  on  this 
subject,  I  was  far  from  anticipating  that  he 
would  receive  my  communication  thus. 

"  If  you  knew  the  peace  that  her  pres- 
ence brought  me,  after  many  miserable 
months,"  I  said  at  last,  "  you  would  not 
wonder  that  I  have  wished  this  angel  of 
consolation  to  remain  with  me.  As  to 
Elizabeth,  my  friend,  you  know,  as  well  as  I 
do,  that  if  I  had  married  her  upon  any  feel- 
ing short  of  a  lover's,  she  would  have  been 
miserable,  and  certainly  have  proved  no 
angel  of  consolation." 

"  I  know  you  are  about  to  do  that  which 
is  good  in  the  sight  of  neither  God  nor 
man,'"  he  returned  severely.  "  Your  mother 
and  I  will  be  one  upon  this  suliject.  I  implore 
vou,  Osmund,  to  reconsider  this, — to  retreat 
from  this  false  position,  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  I  would  give  any  thing  that  you  did 
not  regard  it  in  this  light ;  but  pray  under- 
stand that  I  would  not  retract  my  word, 
even  if  I  could  in  honor  do  so.  1  am  too 
grateful  to  Madame  d'Arnheim  for  con- 
senting to  share  my  lot.  Whether  this 
step  will  be  pleasing  in  the  sight  of  man  is 
a  matter  of  profound  indifference  to  us 
both ;  that  it  will  not  be  displeasing  in 
God's  sight  I  honestly  believe.  Nine 
months  ago,  perhaps,  I  should  not  have 
thought  so  ;  but  my  views  have  undergone 
a  great  change  on  many  points  since  then." 

Wo  talked  for  another  hoin-,  but  to  no 
good  result.  He  left  me  standing  at  the 
open  window,  looking  down  into  the  still 
lagune  at  my  feet,  the  black  shadow  of  a 
gondola  shooting,  now  and  again,  like  a 
dark  thought  across  the  silent  water  :  and 
my  heart  was  luiavy  to  think,  that,  for  the 
first  time,  a  cloud  had  arisun  between  me 
and  my  faithful  friend. 


ITS 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

AIy  niotlior  paid  an  early  visit  to  Eliza- 
boili.  \\'liat  passed  on  that  occasion  I  know 
not.  Later,  I  limped  down  to  Number 
25,  and  (bund  my  cousin  and  Mrs.  Everett 
alone.  Tlie  former  looked  thin ;  but  the 
chan;j:e  of  the  pirl  into  the  woman  was 
niaiked.  Au'l  the  manner,  too,  denoted 
habits  of  authority  and  decision  which  had 
frrown  in  the  interval  since  we  hiul  parted. 
Her  countenance  was  calm,  resolute,  and 
joyless.  The  li^ht  which  had  been  wont 
to  kindle  in  the  eyes,  the  break  of  merry 
laughter,  were  gone.  Even  after  her 
father's  death,  the  fire  of  the  face,  leaping 
up  in  Hashes  of  passionate  expression,  was 
not  extinct,  as  it  now  seemed  to  rae  to  be. 
She  was  too  unconventional  to  deliver  any 
little  set  speech  about  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing ;  and  whetht'r  she  experienced  any  real 
pleasure  it  was  diiHcult  to  say,  for  her  man- 
ner was  constrained,  and  her  talk,  chiefly 
of  the  places  they  had  visited,  indicated 
that  apathy  which  Francis  had  deplored. 

"  What  a  wonderfully  picturesque  place 
this  is !  "  I  remarked,  with  a  triteness 
■which  I  can  only  excuse  by  the  difficulty 
of  arousing  Eliz.vbeth's  interest. 

"  Yes,  it  is  like  a  picture,  because  it  is 
so  dead.  I  like  what  is  active  and  stir- 
ring." 

"  But  you  hate  large  towns,  and  the  bus- 
tle of  sight-seeing,  you  tell  ni3  ?  Here 
you  need  see  nothing  but  sky  and  water, 
if  you  like  it,  and  hear  nothing  but  the 
plash  of  oars,  as  you  float  in  a  gondola 
from  morning  till  night." 

"  Not  my  idea  of  supreme  happiness  ; 
but  tastes  differ." 

"  Yes ;  and  Venice  is  particularly  suited 
to  mine  just  now.  Without  legs,  I  am  as 
cood  as  another  man  in  a  "ondola." 

A  look  of  pain  shot  across  her  face. 

"  I  forgot.  Of  course ;  but  you  are  so 
much  better  ;  to  look  at  you,  one  wouldn't 
think  you  were  still  an  invalid." 

'•  I  try  not  to  think  myself  one.  Still  I 
can  only  crawl  about,  you  see,  with  two 
sticks.  If  I  am  a  '  devil '  on  them,  it  is  a 
very  poor  one."  I  laughed  at  my  own  sorry 
jest,  out  she  looked  grave. 

"  Do  vou  return  to  Ensjland  this  win- 
ter  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  unless  my  lady  wishes  it ;  and  I 
feel  pretty  sure  she  will  not." 

"  You  do  not  wish  it,  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  it  again  !  " 

"  Then  you  have  given  up  soldiering  for- 
ever V  "  she  pursued,  in  a  tone  of  pity  and 
disajipointment. 

"  I  can't  go  on  having  e.xtensions  of  sick 
leave  ;  and  my  regiment  goes  out  to  Can- 


ada in  the  spring.     There  is  no  choice  in 
the  matter.     I  must  sell  out." 

'•I  wouldn't — I  would  stick  on  to  the 
very  last." 

"  Ah  !  so  should  I,  two  years  ago.  Now 
—  one  alters,  you  see,  Elizabeth." 

"  You  were  ambitious.   Is  that  all  gone  ?  " 

She  looked  at  me  with  curiosity. 

"Yes, — or  at  least,  changed.  When  I 
was  a  boy,  a  woman  who  felt  my  head  told 
me  that  nothing  would  save  my  being  as 
obstinate  as  a  pig,  except  that  I  was  very 
impressionable.  I  am  afraid  that  combina- 
tion," I  added,  laughing,  "  is  what  is  called 
'  a  weak  character. '  " 

"You  are  not  weak,"  said  Elizabeth  — 
"  at  least,  you  are  only  a  mixture,  like 
every  one  I  have  ever  known,  except  Lady 
Rachel  and  Mr.  Francis.  Dear  dad  was 
like  that.  I  could  twist  him  round  my  fin- 
jrers  generally,  but  he  wouldn't  give  way 
if  he  thou.;;ht  any  thing  was  for  my  good. 
Cousin  Humphrey,  too,  was  two-thirds 
tough,  and  one-third  soft.  Only  certain 
people,  I  think,  would  ever  influence  you. 
Otherwise"  — 

She  stopped  short,  and  I  waited. 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Otherwise,  you  wouldn't  have  insisted 
on  ixivinGj  me  up  the  property.*' 

Iler  bluntness  confused  me  for  a  moment ; 
but  I  replied,  laughing,  that  this  was  my 
pig-headed  obstinacy.  She  continued, 
with  that  cool  perspicacity  which,  through 
every  digression,  keeps  in  sight  the  point 
originally  under  discussion,  — 

"  You  were  saying  your  ambition  had 
changed,  and  added  that  you  were  impres- 
sionable.    What  did  you  mean  V  " 

"  Did  Mr.  Francis  tell  you  that  last  win- 
ter, when  I  was  in  the  lowest  depths,  I 
nearly  became  a  Catholic  and  a  monk  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  didn't  believe  it.  I  remem- 
bered what  you  had  said  at  Ghent,  that 
for  a  man  to  fly  from  trials  and  burdens, 
and  shut  himself  up  in  a  cell,  was  cow- 
ardly." 

"When  a  fellow  is  down  as  I  was,  his 
hopes  wrecked,  he  does  become  a  moral 
coward  ;  but  that  wretched  phase  passed 
away  at  last,  thanks  to  the  influence  of  one 
of  the  best  women  that  ever  lived." 

She  sent  a  swift  shaft  of  curiosity  straight 
into  mv  eves. 

"What  did  she  do?" 

"  She  taught  me,  by  her  own  unselfish 
life,  that,  whatever  trials  man  or  woman 
has  to  bear,  the  noblest  use  to  which  he 
can  apply  himself  is  to  help  others.  That 
is  the  way  in  which  I  hope  to  serve  God 
when  I  am  strong." 

Elizabeth  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  If,  by  help,  you  mean  money,  I'm  ready 
to  give  it  all  up ;   but  I  can't  visit  cottages, 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


179 


and  attend  ladies'  meetings,  and  all  that. 
I  did  tiy  it ;  but  I  was  no  <iood  :  perhaps  I 
might  be,  if  I  lived  in  St.  Giles's.  Once  I 
thought  there  was  no  place  like  the  coun- 
try ;  now  I  want  activity,  exeitement,  — 
that's  why  I  travel." 

"  And  quite  right  too.  You  are  very 
young — see  all  you  can.  But  you  must 
make  my  friend's  acquaintance,  and  have 
some  little  talks  with  her.  She  is  here  now 
—  in  this  hotel." 

"  Oh  !  the  person  Lady  Rachel  named  ? 
She  is  a  court  lady.  My  uncouth  ways 
would  horrify  her  !  " 

"  Did  my  mother  say  any  thing  to  her 
prejudice  ?  "  I  asked  quickly. 

"  No  I  she  said  she  was  a  clever,  middle- 
aged  person,  who  had  helped  to  nurse  you, 
and  amuse  you  at  St.  Moritz  —  that  was 
all." 

I  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  Well,  this  clever,  middle-aged  person 
is  a  woman  of  the  noblest  type.  If  I  live 
for  a  thousand  years,  I  can  never  repay 
her  all  I  owe  her.  You  will  learn  to  know 
her  worth,  Elizabeth." 

I  said  no  more,  for  Francis  entered  at 
that  moment.  I  had  bound  Inm  to  secrecy 
as  to  my  engagement,  until  it  was  disclosed 
to  my  mother ;  and  the  subject  was  so 
painful  to  him,  that  I  felt  sure  he  would 
never  willingly  broach  it. 
.   "  The  gondola  is  below,"  he  said. 

She  turned  a  little  shyly  to  me. 

"  Will  you  come  with  us  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,  thank  you.  I  didn't  sleep 
last  night,  and  feel  seedy.  I  shall  lie  down 
for  an  hour  or  two." 

We  parted  on  the  stairs.  I  had,  in 
truth,  a  splitting  headache,  and  limped  off" 
to  my  own  room.  To  reach  it,  I  had  to 
pass  through  an  ante-chamber,  which  led 
also  to  my  mother's  room.  The  door  of 
this  was  not  quite  closed.  As  I  passed  it, 
I  was  arrested  by  hearing  Madame  d'Arn- 
hehn's  voice  raised  to  an  unwonted  pitch  ; 
and  then  I  heard  my  own  name.  What 
did  it  mean  ?  AVhat  could  she  be  doing 
in  my  mother's  room?  The  temptation  to 
have  these  questions  answered  was  ii-resist- 
ible.     I  stood  still. 

"  Holding  your  son  in  thraldom  !  What 
do  you  mean,  Lady  Rachel  ?  " 

These  were  the  first  words  I  heard,  ut- 
tered in  tones  sharp  and  tremulous  with 
indignation. 

"  I  mean,"  responded  the  mellifluous  voice 
I  had  known  since  a  child  —  '"I  mean,  that 
as  you  are  very  clever,  very  fascinating,  so 
long  as  you  choose  to  exercise  your  sway 
over  Osmund,  he  is  like  a  bird  in  a  net  — 
he  has  not  a  chance  of  escape  ;  although 
he  is  attached  to  his  cousin,  and  might,  I 
believe,  easily  be  br»ught  to  think  of  her 


as  a  wife,  now  that  that  other  foolish  affair 
is  quite  at  an  end.  You  must  have  observed 
how  delighted  he  was  last  night  when  he 
heard  of  her  arrival.  Now,  I  put  it  to  you 
frankljf,  is  it  not  the  kindest  tiling,  if  you 
are  truly  his  fi-iend,  to  relax  the  hold  you 
possess  over  him,  and  further  a  marriage 
which  would  be  so  very  advantageous  iu  all 
ways  ? " 

"  And  what  if  I  am  something  more  than 
his  fi-iend  ?  " 

Madame  d'Arnheim  spoke  slowly,  and 
paused  before  she  continued,  — 

"  W^ho  came  to  me  at  Nice,  and  imyilored 
me  to  forget  his  mother's  insults,  and  res- 
cue her  son  fr®m  the  morbid  insanity  that 
threatened  to  drive  him  into  a  monastery  ? 
Who  fostered  our  intimacy,  and  was  so  prod- 
igal of  flattery  and  gratitude  to  me,  at  St. 
Moritz,  careless  of  appearances,  —  or  conse- 
quences, to  me,  —  so  long  as  I  was  a  mar- 
ried ivoman  f  But  now  I  am  divorced,  —  I 
am  free  ;  and  you  cry  out,  '  Release  my 
son  ! '  It  is  too  late.  Lady  Rachel.  You 
have  pushed  me  to  the  edge  of  the  preci- 
pice, and  now  you  would  drag  me  back.  It 
is  too  late.     I  have  taken  the  leap." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

My  mother  strove  to  speak  oalmly,  but 
her  voice  quavered. 

"  I  have  too  high  an  opinion  of  you  to 
think  that  you  would  permit  a  boy  like  Os- 
mund to  sacrifice  himself  by  marrying  a 
woman  of  your  age,  even  if — if — you 
must  forgive  me,  Madame  d'Arnheim,  — 
even  if  there  were  no  other  sad  drawbacks 
to  such  a  marriage,  —  no  moral  considera- 
tions "  — 

"Moral  considerations!  Pray,  did  you 
shut  your  eyes  to  them  when  you  threw  us 
daily  together  ?  Or  did  it  seem  of  no  im- 
portance if  I  became  —  well,  no  matter 
what,  so  long  as  I  saved  your  son,  and  that 
he  stopped  short  of  marriage  ?  Ach  !  Du 
lieber  Gott!"  she  cried  bitterly,  —  "and 
this  woman  is  called  virtuous  and  religious 
by  the  world  !  " 

"  Your  vehemence  carries  you  away, 
madame.  Because  I  asked  you  to  try  to 
divert  my  son's  thoughts,  and  expressed  my 
gratitude  at  your  success,  you  make  an  in- 
sinuation, which,  in  your  calmi^r  moments, 
you  would  shrink  I'rom.  It  is  too  shocking 
for  me  to  reply  to.  I  trusted  you,  for  I  be- 
lieved you  to  be  highly  principled.  I  will 
not  abandon  that  belief.  1  will  not  think  it 
possible  that  you  would  entraj)  a  boy,  who 
has  scarcely  been  iu  the  full  possession  of 
his  fiiculties  all  this  time,  into  a  marriage 
which  can  entail  nothing  but  misery  and 
disgrace  on  him  —  and  you  too." 

"  I  was  prepared  for  this,  —  at  least,  I 
thought  so,"  was  Marie's  passionate  reply  ; 
but  her  voice  steadied  as  she  continued  : 


180 


PENEUDDOCKE. 


"  Such  language  may  make  me  wince  at 
first,  but  1  shall  soon  become  accustomed 
to  it.  Hard  Avords  never  made  me  turn 
aside  from  any  course  I  had  well  con- 
siilcred  :  and  I  have  had  enou<Th  of  them 
in  mv  life  !  Is  it  worth  trvin'f  to  iustifv 
myself?  I  am  goinj^  to  marry  your  son. 
Yes,  Lady  Rachel,  I  am  going  to  marry 
him  ;  not  because  he  is  in  love  with  me  ; 
on  the  contrary,  if  he  said  he  was,  I  sliould 
have  refused  liiin.  His  fancy  for  a  woman 
so  much  older  would  pass  away,  and  leave 
behind  it  remorse  to  me,  and  misery  to  him. 
But  I  know  that  it  is  the  truth  when  he  says 
that  I  can  sooth  his  wounded  spirit,  and 
stimulate  him  to  hope  and  to  exertion  as 
no  one  else  can  ;  that  I  can  be  of  use  that 
will  remain  to  him  when  wrinkles  and  gray 
hairs  appear.  I  have  lain  awake  thinking 
of  this  for  weeks,  and  if  I  did  not  feel  sure 
of  it,  if  I  did  not  feel  sure  that  Osmund  will 
never  love  again  as  he  loved  Evelyn  Ham- 
leigh,  I  swear  to  you,  Lady  Rachel,  I  would 
not  consent  to  marry  him,  though  he  waited 
for  years.  But  you  never  understood  your 
son.  His  heart  is  crushed  ;  if  I  leave  him, 
he  Avill  again  become  misanthropic  —  his 
mind,  his  very  health  will  suffer.  This  is 
my  true  beliet;  and  in  that  lies  my  justifica- 
tion." 

"  You  take  the  maundering  of  a  love-sick 
boy  for  a  broken  heart."  "W^ith  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  sneer  I  had  ever  heard  from 
her  lips,  my  mother  uttered  these  words, 
"  I  do  not  believe  in  such  things  myself. 
In  this  case,  the  assumption  is  preposterous. 
He  is  but  two  and  twenty,  coiifmed  to  his 
sofa,  debarred  from  all  amusement  and 
exercise ;  and,  because  his  spirits  are  low, 
you  say  his  heart  is  broken." 

"  I  say  he  is  in  that  condition  in  which 
he  needs  a  woman's  sympathy  hbove  every 
thing." 

"  Elizabeth  is  ready  enough  to  offer  hers. 
If  you  are  really  disinterested,  why  not  let 
him  accept  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  urged  him  to  do  so,  —  though 
you  look  incredulous.  Lady  Rachel.  But 
he  has  told  me  repeatedly  that  she  was  the 
last  person  he  should  ever  think  of  marry- 
ing. The  fact  is,  I  have  a  conviction,  and 
this  is  not  vanity,  —  it  is  an  inward  con- 
viction, independent  of  his  own  assevera- 
tions, that  no  other  woman  noio  will  ever 
have  the  beneficial  influence  over  him  that 
I  possess." 

"  If  you  feel  so  confident  of  this,  why  not 
test  him  V  "  said  my  mother  slowly.  She 
had  kept  her  trump-card  till  the  last. 
"  Two  or  three  years'  absence  will  prove 
if  you  are  right,  and  obviate  the  fatal 
consequences  of  a  hasty  engagement,  which 
all  his  friends  will  deplore." 

"  Two  —  or    three    years  ?  "     repeated 


Marie,  as  if  bewildered.  The  blow  had 
struck  home.  The  suggestion  was  new, 
and  seemed  unanswerable.  If  I  allowed 
my  mother  to  follow  it  up,  it  might  be  im- 
possible to  undo  the  mischief.  I  pushed 
the  door  open. 

"  \Vherever  Marie  d'Arnheim  goes  now, 
I  follow.  Understand  that,  mother.  It  is 
out  of  your  power  to  separate  us,  — you 
need  not  try.  Your  interview  with  her  has 
forestalled  the  announcement  I  meant  to 
make  to  you  to-day  ;  but  you  have  only 
heard  her.  It  is  as  well  that  you  should 
hear  me  too.  Your  object  for  years  has 
been  to  prevent  my  marrying  Evelyn. 
You  have  succeeded  —  rest  satisfied  with 
that.  I  have  found  consolation  here.  If 
you  attempt  to  rob  me  of  that,  I  tell  you 
fairly  we  must  separate." 

"  I  have  long  been  used  to  your  undntiful 
language.  I  was  foolish  to  expect  that  suf- 
fering had  wrought  a  change  in  you,"  re- 
sponded my  mother,  with  saint-like  resigna- 
tion, after  a  pause.  "  What  I  did  was  for 
your  good ;  but  I  wash  my  hands  of  all 
responsibility,  —  henceforward  you  must 
go  your  own  way." 

"  That  is  all  I  ask  —  to  be  allowed  to  go 
my  own  way." 

"  The  broad  way  that  leadeth  to  destruc- 
tion, I  fear.  You  have  never  caused  me 
any  thing  but  anxiety,  sorrow,  and  mortifica- 
tion from  your  earliest  years  ;  and  now  you 
are  bent  on  completing  your  own  ruin  !  It 
is  too  terrible  !  But  do  not  be  afraid,  —  I 
shall  trouble  you  no  more.  I  have  nursed 
you  for  two  years  and  a  half,  and  have  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  I  have  done  my 
duty.  You  no  longer  need  me  ;  and  as  I 
certainly  cannot  countenance  such  a  mar- 
rian^e,  a  marriage  with  a  divorced  woman, 
years  older  than  yourself,  I  shall  leave  you 
at  once." 

My  mother  delivered  herself  of  this 
speech  with  all  her  wonted  composure, 
resting  her  long  taper  fingers  upon  the  ta- 
ble before  her,  and  never  taking  her  cold 
blue  eyes  from  my  face.  No  trace  of  the 
ao-itation  into  which  she  had  been  betraved 
a  few  minutes  before  was  visible ;  it  was 
poor  Marie  who  looked  confused  and  dis- 
tressed. She  had  sunk  into  a  chair  on 
my  entrance,  her  head  buried  in  her 
hands. 

"  If  you  entertain  this  view  of  my  mar- 
riage, I  cannot  urge  your  remaining,  moth- 
er," I  replied  hotly.  "  I  do  not  forget  the 
sacrifices  you  have  made.  I  am  prepared 
to  do  any  thing  I  can  for  your  comfort ;  but 
I  fear,  that,  after  this,  it  would  conduce  nei- 
ther to  yours  nor  to  mine  that  we  should 
continue  to  be  together." 

And,  with  a  flushed  face,  I  turned  and 
left  the  room. 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


181 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

In  the  ante-cliambei',  a  lioht  hand  was 
laid  oa  iny  shoulder ;  and  I  met  Marie's 
white  iace,  as  I  turned  nay  head.  She 
Sjioke  low,  and  her  voice  shook  ;  but  the 
words  came  ra[)idly. 

*'  This  must  not  be,  dear  Osmund.  I 
fed  there  is  truth  in  what  she  says, —  we 
ou;4ht  to  separate  for  a  time,  at  least,  —  and 
you  must  take  her  back  to  England,  — it  is 
your  duty.  You  cannot  let  her  travel  back 
alone." 

"  Why  not  ?  But  I  am  too  angry  to  argue 
or  to' know  what  is  right,  —  I  only  know 
what  is  ivrotifj.  To  insult  you  like  that, 
alter  all  her  llattery,  all  her  line  speeches 
of  gratitude  I  It  makes  my  blood  boil,  — 
it  does !  " 

"  Do  not  think  about  it.  What  does  it 
signily?  When  you  reflect,  you  will  see 
she  is  right  in  this,  —  some  time  ought  to 
elapse.  You  can  rejoin  me  in  Germany 
by  and  by." 

Whatever  it  niaj'  have  cost  her  to  say 
this,  she  said  ir  bravely. 

''  One  thing  at  all  events  shall  be  done 
at  once,  to  obviate  any  further  machina- 
tions on  my  mother's  ])art.  Our  engage- 
ment must  be  announced.  Tell  the  duch- 
ess, and  I  will  write  to  Elizabeth.  By  and 
by  I  will  take  you  to  call  on  her." 

Seeing  that  I  was  resolute,  she  offered 
no  objection  to  this. 

It  was  a  pleasurable  surprise  to  me,  and, 
at  first,  wholly  unaccountable,  that  Eliza- 
beth, who  had  been  unable  (so  I  under- 
stood) to  conceal  her  jealousy  of  Evelyn, 
showed  none  of  my  afhanced  wife.  They 
became  friends  from  the  first  hour  they 
met.  Each  recognized  valuable  qualities 
in  the  other,  and  they  were  qualities  that 
did  not  jar,  as  such  possessions  generally 
do.  Evelyn's  unmurmuring  patience,  her 
subserviency  to  her  foolish  mother,  the. 
absence  of  all  demonstration,  aggravated 
her  impetuous  cousin.  INIarie's  trenchant 
intellect,  her  unconventional  habits  of 
thought,  her  courage  to  face  difficulties  of 
whatsoever  kind  that  she  encountered, 
commended  her  especially  to  Elizabeth. 

Francis  acknowledged  that  he  had  never 
seen  her  take  a  fancy  to  any  woman,  as  she 
had  done  to  Madame  d'Arnheim.  And 
this,  in  the  face  of  his  own  marked  avoid- 
ance of  the  latter,  and  —  as  I  could  not 
doubt  —  openly  pronoLuiced  reprobation  of 
my  marriage. 

Shall  1  say  what  I  think  ?  The  human 
heart  is  such  a  complicated  piece  of  ma- 
cliinery  that  it  is  often  diffit-ull  to  detect 
the  secret  workinii  of  our  own  thoughts  and 


inclinations,  —  how  much  more  so  that  of 
others!  But  this  I  feel  pretty  sure  of: 
that  just  as  my  devotion  to  Evelyn,  whom 
she  considered  an  unworthy  rival,  was  the 
primary  cause  of  Elizabeth's  unsympathy 
with  her  cousin,  so  the  knowledge  that, 
while  I  owed  every  thing  to  Marie,  I  was 
not  in  love  with  her,  rather^reilisposed  her 
in  favor  of  the  woman  whom  she  consid- 
ered I  was  marrying  out  nf  (jraliiud<2.  That 
this  was  not  the  truth,  the  reader  knows ; 
but.  in  such  a  case,  our  fi-iends  often  think 
that  they  strike  at  the  root  of  an  action  of 
which  we  present  to  them  the  mere  fruit 
and  foliage. 

Her  Serene  Highness  was  mightily  dis- 
pleased with  her  friend's  engagement,  as 
(considering  my  mother's  influence  in  that 
quarter)  Marie  and  I  both  anticipated. 
Little  used  to  opposition,  the  duchess  alter- 
nately threatened,  cajoled,  implored  her 
"  Hoi-dame  "  to  relinquish  an  idea  which, 
she  assured  her,  would  cover  her  with  ob- 
loquy, by  lending  an  apparent  confirmation 
to  the  scandal  which  had  coupled  her  name 
with  mine  two  years  ago.  Marie  stood 
firm.  There  should  be  no  undue  haste,  — 
she  would  return  to  Germany,  —  I  would 
take  my  mother  to  England.  Let  us  be 
separated  for  a  time  ;  she  acknowledged 
the  wisdom  of  this,  if  I  could  be  brought  to 
consent  to  it ;  but  give  me  up,  —  no,  that 
she  would  never  do ;  all  the  duchess's  ar- 
guments were  as  waves  dashed  against  a 
rock. 

Thus  matters  remained  for  some  days. 
The  intercourse  between  my  mother  and 
me,  never  at  any  time  genial,  was  now  so 
constrained  that,  by  mutual  consent,  we 
never  met  but  in  the  duchess's  or  Eliza- 
beth's sitting-room. 

One  thing  jiuzzled  me.  I  had  formally 
announced  to  my  mother  my  readiness  to 
return  with  her  to  England  ;  but  it  was 
clear  she  had  no  intention  of  returning ;  nor 
did  she  desire  me  to  return.  "  What  was 
the  use  of  my  going  back  ?  "  she  said.  Had 
not  the  doctors  advised  my  wintering  again 
in  a  warm  climate  ?  As  for  herself,  she 
should  probably  join  the  duchess  in  Ger- 
many ;  but  she  required  no  escort,  —  she 
preferred  travelling  alone,  now  that  she 
had  no  ties,  no  duties  that  bound  her  to 
one  place  more  than  to  another. 

I  had  anticipated  that  she  would  snatch 
at  my  proposal,  that  she  would  have  hur- 
ried me  away,  eager  to  set  land  and  sea 
between  Marie  and  me,  without  loss  of 
time  ;  and  trusting  to  the  effect  of  absence 
(and  possibly  furthur  scheming)  to  unknit 
the  bond  that  now  united  us.  Not  at  all. 
As  though  she  had  renounced  all  hope  of 
this,  she  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
alone  with  the  duch«ss,  and  did  not  talk  of 


182 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


departure.  I  was  the  more  surprised,  as 
Marie  had  discovered  that  all  chance  of 
Orsova's  joining  the  party  was  at  an  end. 
The  letter  the  duchess  had  received  the 
evenin"'  ol"  our  arrival,  and  which  she  had 
passed  on  to  my  mother,  announced  tliat 
the  prince's  physician  forbade  his  ])rojected 
visit  to  Venice,  and  that  he  had  turned  his 
steps  northwards.  Thus  (assuming  Marie's 
hvpothesis  to  have  any  tbundation)  even 
this  motive  was  wanting  to  account  for  my 
mother's  reluctance  to  return  to  England. 
The  Wallachian  was  too  wary,  and  iled 
i'roui  temptation. 

The  pressure  brought  to  bear  upon  us 
during  these  days,  therefore,  came  solely 
from  the  duchess,  who,  not  satisfied  with 
attackinijc  Marie,  thou'ht  meet  to  make  an 
onslaught  upon  me,  for  what  she  was 
pleased  to  term  my  "  ingratitude  to  ray  an- 
gelic parent,"  who  had  left  her  home  and 
all  her  I'riends  in  England  to  devote  her- 
self to  me.  I  could  not  resist  maliciously 
pointing  out  that  my  mother  showed  no  im- 
patience to  return  to  her  home  and  friends ; 
and  I  then  cut  the  serene  lady  very  short 
by  acknowledging  that  Lady  llachel's  care 
of  me  had  been  unremitting,  which  was  the 
more  admirable  inasmuch  as  it  was  insti- 
gated solely  by  a  sense  of  duty,  and  not  by 
atfection  ;  that  I  would  gladly  make  any 
sacrifice,  in  return,  to  minister  to  her  per- 
sonal comfort.  "But,"  I  concluded,  "I  do 
not  admit  the  right  of  a  mother,  nor  of  an?/ 
one  else,  to  interfere  in  a  man's  marriage ; 
and  permit  me  to  add,  madame,  that  I  con- 
sider whoever  does  so  is  very  ill-advised." 

After  that,  it  was  no  wonder  that  the 
duchess  was  unmeasured  in  her  language, 
when  speaking  to  Marie,  of  her  dear  Lady 
Kachel's  graceless  son.  She  told  her  friend 
she  was  throwing  herself  away  on  a  worth- 
less boy  ;  and,  in  the  same  breath,  upbraided 
her  with  causing  disunion  between  this  poor 
persecuted  saint  and  her  sole-surviving 
child.  To  all  this  there  could  be  but  one 
end.  We  haii  foreseen  it  for  some  days. 
Marie,  harassed  by  daily  altercations,  re- 
quested permission  to  leave  her  royal  mis- 
tress upon  their  return  to  Germany,  and 
live  in  retirement  with  her  own  family 
during  the  winter.  The  duchess  received 
her  "  Hof-dame's  "  resignation  in  angry  si- 
lence. The  next  day  she  announced  her 
intention  of  quitting  Venice  the  beginning 
of  the  following  week  for  Baden-Baden. 

That  same  day  (it  was  a  Thursday)  oc- 
curred something  which  impressed  me  very 
little  at  the  time,  but  of  which  I  perceived 
the  siiinificance  later.  Between  me  and 
mv  first  and  dearest  friend,  whom  1  should 
always  revere  beyond  any  man  on  earth, 
had  arisen  a  cloud  which  nothing  could  dis- 
perse.    It  was  not  that  our  love  for  each 


other  was  less,  but  rather,  that,  because  of 
that  love,  such  absolute  division  on  a  point 
of  vital  importance  rendered  intercourse 
])ainful  to  us  both.  I  confess  I  avoided 
him  ;  and  he  certainly  never  sought  me. 
Jf  he  came  into  Elizabeth's  salon  when 
Marie  and  I  were  there,  he  invariably  re- 
tired, after  a  few  minutes,  on  some  pretext 
or  other.  He  passed  the  days,  ostensibly, 
among  the  churches  and  pictures,  where  he 
occasionally  succeeded  in  dragging  Eliza- 
beth, occasionally  escorted  Mrs.  Everett,  but 
still  more  frequently  went  alone.  Whether 
this  self-imposed  routine  was  followed 
merely  for  the  gratification  of  his  highly- 
cultivated  tastes,  or  arose  from  his  repug- 
nance to  give  the  sanction  of  his  presence 
to  a  state  of  things  he  reprobated  so  strongly, 
I  cannot  tell.  That  he  spoke  his  mind 
very  openly  and  decidedly  to  Elizabeth,  as 
to  the  unadvisability  of  her  increasing  in- 
timacy with  Marie,  I  feel  sure  ;  but,  though 
usually  tractable  with  him,  this  was  a  point 
upon  which  she  chose  to  have  her  own  way. 

On  this  same  Thursday,  then,  I  remem- 
ber being  surprised,  and  a  little  uncomfort- 
able, when  Francis  entered  my  room,  and 
asked  whether  I  would  go  to  the  Lido  with 
him,  —  his  gondola  was  below.  I  would 
have  refused,  but  had  no  excuse  ready.  He 
was  strangely  silent  all  the  way,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  has  something  which 
weighs  him  down  at  heart,  and  of  which  he 
would  fain  unburden  himself.  I  felt  what 
it  must  be,  and  in  my  nervous  desire  to 
stave  oflT  discussion  which  could  serve  no 
good  end,  I  talked  incessantly,  with  an  as- 
sumption of  gayety  which  I  knew  did  not 
impose  upon  my  clear-sighted  companion  ; 
but  it  rendered  nearly  impossible  that  last 
solemn  appeal  from  him  which  I  felt  to 
be  imminent.  He  sat  grave  and  abstracted, 
looking  out  upon  the  tremulous  green  and 
gold  of  the  sun-lit  lagunes,  rarely  replying 
to  my  chatter,  except  by  a  dry  monosyllable 
now  and  again.  We  returned  to  the  hotel 
at  the  end  of  two  hom-s,  without  his  having 
'uttered  a  word  of  that  which  was  upon  his 
mind. 

The  following  morning,  when  I  went  to 
Elizabeth's  rooms,  I  was  surjirised  to  hear 
I'rom  Mrs.  Everett  that  my  cousin  and  Ma- 
rie were  already  gone  out  together.  This 
was  contrary  to  all  precedent :  they  had 
invariably  given  me  notice  of  their  move- 
ments ;  and,  as  this  was  the  last  day  but 
two  of  Marie's  stay  in  Venice,  I  felt  a  little 
ao-n-rieved  that  she  should  absent  herself, 
even  for  a  few  hours.  I  accounted  for  it 
by  supposing  that  the  necessity  which 
drives  women  "  to  shop  "  in  a  country  town, 
the  day  after  they  have  left  London,  had 
suddenly  possessed  both  ladies ;  such  pos- 
session,  however,   being   quite    foreign   to 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


183 


Elizabeth's  natiiw.  The  passing  irritation 
melti'd  into  solicitude,  when,  on  their  return, 
I  learnt  that  Marie  was  seriously  indisposeil. 

I  did  not  see  her  all  day;  but  I  did 
see  Elizabeth,  and  her  manner,  always 
abrupt,  struck  me  as  being  unusually 
strange.  It  was  almost  with  savage  fero- 
city, that,  when  I  expressed  my  hope  that 
Marie  was  not  suffering,  she  replied,  — 

'•  Suffering  !  —  I  should  think  she  is. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?"''  then  suddenly 
tuint'd  and  left  the  room.  Marie  had  been 
subjected  to  some  fresh  attack  from  the 
duchess  or  my  mother  —  that  was  clear. 
I  need  not  say  I  avoided  Her  Serene  High- 
ness's-  salon  that  evening.  Elizabeth  was 
by  Marie's  bedside.  Francis  was  out.  I 
spent  the  evening  alone. 

The  next  morning  —  Saturday  —  Joe 
said,  when  I  was  dressing,  — 

"  Yo'.i've  heard,  I  s'pose,  as  my  lady's 
goin'  to  Bad  uu  o'  Monday,  with  the  grand- 
duchesss  V  " 

"  Nonsense  !     Who  told  you  so  ?" 

"  Her  maid,  just  now.  Madame,  being 
ill,  is  no  use  to  the  duchess,  she  says;  so 
my  lady  decided  last  night  to  go  too." 

"  Have  you  heard  how  Madame  d'Arn- 
heim  is  this  morning  ?  "  I  asked  anxiously. 

"  I  see  her  maid.  She  says  her  missis 
is  no  wuss  —  doesn't  complain  o'  nothin'  — 
only  lies  stoopid-like,  and  won't  eat." 

"  Have  they  sent  for  a  doctor  V  " 

"Bless  you!  A  doctor  ain't  no  good. 
Women  is  like  that.  A  man,  he  takes  to 
the  bottle  when  he's  out  o'  sorts ;  but  a  wo- 
man, she  takes  to  her  bed." 

Joe,  who,  of  course,  knew  the  state  of  af- 
fliirs,  divined,  quite  as  well  as  I  did,  the 
cause  of  Marie's  indisposition. 

I  did  not  see  her  all  that  day.  She  sent 
me  a  message  by  Elizabeth,  begging  me  not 
to  be  uneasy  about  her ;  she  was  overdone, 
and  still  telt  unequal  to  any  exertion;  but 
rest  was  all  she  needed;  she  would  be  bet- 
ter to-morrow ;  and,  whether  or  not,  she 
would  certainly  see  me. 

My  mother  tbrmally  announced  her  de- 
parture to  me  thus  :  — 

"  The  duchess  has  proposed  that  I  should 
accompany  her  to  Baden,  and  thus  supple- 
ment Madame  d'Arnheim,  whose  iiidis])osi- 
tion,  I  fear,  will  render  her  of  little  service 
as  a  dame  de  compagnie.  As  I  am  of  no 
further  use  to  you,  and  1  can  be  of  some  use 
to  the  duchess,  I  have  accepted  her  pro- 
posal." 

I  felt  bitterly  all  that  my  poor  Marie 
would  be  sulijected  to  on  that  journey ;  and 
though  I  knew  the  utter  futility  of  remon- 
strance in  such  a  case,  I  could  not  help  say- 
ing, — 

i^   "  Whatever  may  have  caused  Marie  d'- 
Arnheim's  illness,  I  hope  you  and  the  duch- 


ess, between  you  will  not  aggravate  it  by 
bullying  her.  It  will  be  very  ciuel,  and  lost 
time  besides.  She  has  given  me  her  word, 
and  she  will  not  go  back  from  it.  I  have 
given  her  mine,  and  you  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  /  shall  stick  to 
it." 

"  I  will  promise  you,"  said  my  mother 
blandly,  "  not  so  much  as  to  name  the  sub- 
ject of  your  engagement  to  Madame 
d'Arnheim :  I  am  sure  I  may  promise  as 
much  for  the  duchess."  Then,  after  a 
momentary  hesitation,  she  added,  — 

"  Some  day  or  .other  you  will  do  my  mo- 
tives more  justice  than  you  can  now,  Os- 
mund. It  is  as  well  for  tie  present  that  we 
should  be  separated." 

It  was,  indeed  as  well.  O  wise  moth- 
er I  had  you  remained  but  a  few  hours 
longer  near  me,  God  knows  into  what  un- 
seemly ebullition  of  violence  I  mi<'ht  liave 
been  betrayed ! 

I  saw  Marie  on  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
was  shocked  with  the  alteration  in  her  ap- 
pearance, tShe  looked  literally  years  old- 
er—  wan  and  worn;  but  the  spirit  which 
had  struggled  through  much  suflering  to  the 
light  shone  out  of  those  deep,  true  eyes, 
that  never  faltered,  as  their  gaze  met  mine. 
She  was  calm,  and  led  the  conversation 
away  from  herself  to  discuss  my  plans  tor 
the  winter.  She  dared  say  I  should  winter 
in  England,  after  all.  I  was  gaining  in 
strength  so  visibly  every  day,  that  climate 
could  now  be  of  no  importance  to  me.  I 
repeated  what  I  so  often  told  her  before, 
that  I  had  no  wish  whatever  to  return  to  my 
own  country.  I  then  asked  how  long  she 
proposed  to  remain  with  the  duchess.  She 
replied  that  her  plans  were  unsettled,  but 
she  would  write  very  soon  ;  I  miiiht  depend 
o.n  that.  She  then  made  me  the  most  sol- 
emn promise,  that  nothing  which  the  duch- 
ess or  my  mother  could  say  would  influence 
her  in  the  slightest  degree.  "  The  time  is 
past,  when  sarcasm  or  reproach  could  hurt 
me,"  she  said,  with  a  dreary  little  smile.  I 
told  her  that  I  should  tly  northwards,  with 
the  first  swallow,  to  claim  her,  wherever 
she  might  be ;  in  the  mean  time,  I  proposed 
remaining  at  Venice,  which  had  a  charm 
for  me  just  now,  still  crippled  as  1  was,  no 
other  city  could  possess ;  "  besides,"  I  add- 
ed, '■  it  is  the  last  place  in  which  we  shall 
be  together,  which  naturally  endears  me  to 
it." 

She  said  nothing;  but,  by  the  whiteness  of 
her  lips,  I  feared  she  was  faint.  I  poured 
some  eau-de-cologne  on  my  handkerchief, 
and  gave  it  to  her.  Pi-esently,  she  held  out 
her  hand. 

"  You  shall  not  stay  any  longer  now  ;  I 
have  writing  I  must  do  before  I  go  to  bed, 
and  I  have  need  of  all  my  strength  for  to- 


184 


PENRUDDOCKE, 


morrow.  I  shall  keep  this  handkerchief — 
may  I V  " 

Fearing  to  agitate  her  more,  I  silently 
pressed  her  hand  to  my  lips,  and  left  the 
room. 

But  her  face  haunted  me  all  night  long. 


CHAPTER    LXV. 

They  arc  off.  The  gondolas  that  bear 
them  to  the  railway-station  are  out  of  sight. 
I  liave  sei'n  Marie  for  only  a  few  minutes 
this  morning,  and  that  in  the  presence  of 
others.  She  appeared  in  the  salon,  just 
before  it  was  time  to  start,  in  her  dust-col- 
oured travelling-suit,  with  an  ashen  face, 
but  in  all  the  quietude  of  strong  resolve.  I 
am  the  more  visibly  moved  of  the  two. 
We  are  parting,  I  and  this  woman,  whom  I 
look  to  now  as  my  only  consolation  in  the 
otherwise  dreary  future  —  we  are  parting 
for  a,  while,  and  she  will  be  exposed  to  in- 
sidious, as  well  as  open,  attacks,  which  I  am 
powerless  to  ward  off.  I  see  how  they  have 
made  her  suffer  already  —  will  it  not  be  a 
thousand  fold  worse  when  we  are  sepa- 
rated ?  But  1,  too,  can  express  nothing  of 
this,  and  very  little  of  what  I  feel  ;  for  the 
eyes  of  all  are  upon  us,  —  the  duchess's,  my 
mother's,  and  those  of  the  viiiilant  running; 
chorus  of  couriers  and  ladies'-maids. 

"  God  bless  and  keep  you  1 "  is  all  she 
murmurs. 

j\Iy  mother  touches  my  forehead  with  her 
beautiful  lips,  and  says  she  hopes  soon  to 
hear  I  am  quite  well.  That  is  all.  Then 
Her  Serene  Highness,  brisk  and  shabby, 
trips  down  the  stairs  through  an  avenue  of 
landlord,  waiters,  and  couriers,  followed  by 
my  regal-looking  parent,  who  also  bows 
blandly  to  right  and  left  ;  and  my  pale 
jNlarie,  too  absorbed  to  notice  any  thing,  her 
eyes  fixed*" steadily  before  her,  glides  after 
them.  They  step  into  the  gondola  — they 
are  gone ! 

I  stand  gazing  after  them  ;  then,  almost 
unconsciously,  my  e3es  turn  to  Elizabeth's 
window.  There  she  is,  leaning  out,  and 
waving  a  handkerchief;  and  I  can  see  that 
ever  her  small  stern  face  has  come  a  veil  of 
tears. 
,       By  and  by  there  is  a  knock  at  my  door. 

SI  litt  my  face  from  my  hands,  where  it  has 
lain  ibr  the  last  half-hour,  and  in  answer  to 
my  "  Come  in,"  Francis  stands  before  me. 

"  I  have  a  letter  for  j'ou,  my  boy  ;  but  be- 
fore you  read  it,  I  have  a  good  deal  to  tell 
you,"  and  he  draws  a  chair  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  narrow  table  at  which  I  am 
seated.  I  am  struck  with  the  animation  of 
his   voice   and    manner.       On    Thursday 


last  I  received  a  letter  from  Miss  Ham- 
leigh." 

1  started. 

"  From  il/ws  Hamleigli !  —  Lady  Tufton, 
you  mean." 

''  From  ^liss  Hamleigh,"  he  repeated. 
"  It  is  an  answer  to  mine,  written  before  I 
left  England,  and  v^s  forwarded  »o  me 
from  Naples.     Here  it  is  :  read  it." 

"  I  think  I  had  rather  not,"  said  I  quick- 
Iv,  i)uttim>-  it  awav  with  tremblins;  fingers. 
"  It  only  opens  an  old  wound,  which  — 
which  is  not  yet  healed.  I  had  better  never 
hear  of  her  again,"  I  added  with  a  groan. 

"  My  boy,"  said  Francis  gently,  "  you 
must  read  it ;  you  will  thank  me  when  you 
have  done  so,  and  it  is  essential  for  your 
right  understanding  of  what  follows." 

What  did  he  mean  ?  What  did  it  signi- 
fy to  me  now  what  she  .wrote  ?  I  opened 
the  envelope  with  a  throb  of  pain  and  curi- 
osity mingled.     This  is  what  I  read  :  — 

"  The  Cottage,  Aug.  30. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Fraxcis,  —  I  should 
have  answered  your  kind  letter  long  before 
this,  but  I  have  been  very  ill.  When  it 
came,  I  was  in  bed  with  brain-fever,  where 
I  i-emained  many  weeks.  My  illness,  I 
think,  had  been  coming  on  for  months.  I 
want  you  to  know  every  thing  ;  for  you  are 
the  only  person  to  wUom  I  can  open  my 
heart,  and  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should 
misjudge  me.  When  we  met  at  Beauma- 
noir  last  January,  I  was  very  sad  ;  but  oh  1 
it  was  nothing  to  my  wretchedness  a  few 
weeks  later,  when  Osmund  sent  me  back 
the  lock  of  my  hair,  which  I  had  told  him  I 
should  accept  as  a  sign  that  he  loished  to  he 
free" 

AVhen  I  had  read  thus  far,  the  letter 
dropped  from  my  hand.  My  eyes  were 
suddenly  opened  :  I  understood  it  all.  ]\Iy 
mother  had  read  Evelyn's  note  to  me,  and 
I  now  remembered  her  miniature.  I  am 
atraid  that  an  oath  broke  from  my  lips  as 
the  conviction  that  she  had  done  this  shame- 
ful thing  flashed  upon  me. 

"  I  felt,"  continued  the  latter,  "  that 
every  thing  was  really  at  an  end  between 
us,  and  I  was  utterly  crushed.  I  had  looked 
forward  to  years  of  waiting ;  but,  if  he  had 
only  remained  true  to  me,  I  knew  that  my 
courage  would  not  fail.  Now,  however, 
what  had  I  to  sustain  me  ?  Poor  mamma 
was  overjoyed  to  think  I  was  free.  Ah!  even 
she  has  now  been  brought  to  see  things  in 
a  ditierent  light.  Lord  Tufton  came  down 
shortly  after  this,  but  only  staid  a  few 
hoiu's.  I  refused  to  see  him,  knowing  his 
objwt.  Six  months  later,  he  returned,  at 
mamma's  invitation.  She  had  not  relaxed 
her  efforts  tor  a  day,  in  the  interval.  Yoij 
know  all  that  she  would  say  —  I  need  not 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


185 


repeat  her  arguments  ;  tJiei/ did  not  weigh 
with  me ;  but  my  love  for  her,  and  my  de- 
sire to  ease  her  anxiety  on  my  behaU",  pre- 
vailed in  the  end.  Worn  out  in  mind  and 
body,  I  accepted  Lord  Tufton,  but  not  un- 
til I  had  told  him  all.  Wlien  I  named  Os- 
mund, he  was  startled  and  evidently  deeply 
pained  ;  he  had  never  suspected  tlie  truth, 
and  had  he  known  his  friend's  hopes  eigh- 
teen months  before,  he  said  he  would  never 
have  interfered  with  them.  Since  Osmund 
had  freed  liimself,  and  ??ie,  the  case  was 
different.  Nothing  could  be  more  kind, 
more  considerate,  than  Lord  Tufton's  con- 
duct; but  from  that  hour  my  wretchedness 
increased  fourfold.  He  made  no  demand 
on  my  tenderness ;  he  was  content  to  leave 
time  to  work  a  change  in  my  feelings,  he 
said  ;  but  1  knew  I  ougJd  to  love  the  man  I 
had  promised  to  marry,  and  I  could  not !  I 
told  him  he  must  not  hurry  on  the  marriage 
—  that  it  could  not  take  place  until  the 
summer  (it  was  then  November)  ;  and  in 
the  mean  time,  mamma  and  I  went  on  a  long 
visit  to  the  North. 

"  In  May  we  moved  to  London,  and 
preparations  were  begun  for  the  marriage  ; 
but  I  was  utterly  unfit  for  it,  and  grew 
weaker  every  day.  Mamma  at  length  be- 
came alarmed.  The  doctors  whom  I  saw 
did  me  no  good,  —  how  should  they  ?  I  be- 
lieve tliey  thought  my  brain  was  affected  : 
I  thought  so  myself,  the  confusion  of  ideas, 
and  the  pain  I  suffered  in  m}^  head,  was  so 
great.  '  If  I  go  mad,  or  become  imbecile. 
Lord  Tufton  will  hold  himself  bound  to  me 
all  the  same,'  I  said  to  myself.  '  I  must 
break  off  our  engagement  before  it  is  too 
late.'  I  spoke  to  Iiim  at  last  openly.  It  was 
the  middle  of  June.  I  said  I  had  done 
very  wrong  to  accept  him ;  lor  my  heai-t 
was  still  another's,  and  that,  in  the  struggle 
to  do  ray  duty  by  my  husband,  either  my 
reason  or  my  life  would  be  sacrificed.  He 
behaved  nobly —  not  a  word  of  reproach  — 
not  a  selfish  consideration  ;  he  blamed  him- 
self for  having  urged  me  to  marry  him  after 
he  knew  the  real  state  of  my  lieart ;  all  his 
tliought  was  to  spare  me.  We  had  been 
engaged  more  than  seven  months  !  He  saw 
mamma,  and  told  her  that  all  was  at  an 
end.  She  bore  it  better  tlian  I  expected, 
for  she  began  to  understand  that  my  illness 
was  of  the  heart  and  brain,  rather  than  the 
body.  The  doctor  had  roused  her  to  a 
sense  of  my  danger;  and,  indeed,  the  very 
next  day  I  was  stricken  low  by  fever,  and 
lay  between  life  and  death  for  some  weeks. 

"  Poor  mannna  was  worn  to  a  shadow. 
My  illness  has  wrought  a  great  change  in 
her  ideas  about  me.  She  reproaches  her- 
self for  tiie  past,  poor  dear  1  though  of 
course  nothing  that  has  happened  has  been 
her  fault.     But  all  her  ambitious  views  for 


me  have  died  away.  She  understands  now 
that  I  should  be  miserable  if  I  married 
any  one,  —  no  matter  whom,  —  and  is  con- 
tent to  let  me  remain  as  I  am.  Some 
strong  natures  recover  more  easily  from 
such  shocks  ;  mine  has  no  power  of  re- 
bound, I  fear.  I  try  to  turn  my  thoughts 
to  other  subjects,  but  what  little  energy  I 
had  is  gone.  My  mind  constantly  reverts 
to  Osmund.  We  hear  that  he  is 'entirely 
engrossed  now  with  the  same  lady  who 
exercised  such  influence  upon  him  in  Lon- 
don. Ah,  how  easily  we  deceive  ourselves  ! 
—  how  easily  we  believe  what  we  wish  to 
believe  !  He  assured  me  he  only  cared  for 
her  as  a  sister  and  friend  ;  and  after  that, 
though  I  heard  that  Lady  Rachel  had 
found  her  nursing  him,  I  refused  to  listen 
to  any  thing  against  her,  I  believed  him  so 
imjtlicitly  !  But,  alas  1  dear  Mr.  Francis, 
how  can  I  doubt  any  longer  that  she,  a 
married  woman,  has  come  between  Os- 
mund and  me,  and  caused  him  to  break  of!" 
our  enfratrement  ? 

"  Lady  Rachel's  conduct,  I  confess,  is  to 
me  inexplicable :  even  mamma  cannot 
defend  it.  To  encourage  such  an  intimacy, 
because  Osmund  had  taken  up  despondent 
religious  views,  —  I  could  not  beUeve  it 
possible.  Did  she  not  herself  speak  of  it  as 
•a  sad  expediency'?  The  ground  seems 
slipping  from  my  feet  on  every  side.  Even 
Lady  Rachel,  who  has  always  been  to  me 
the  model  of  all  that  was  pure  and  high- 
minded  —  she,  too,  has  fallen  away  ! 

"  I  have  written  a  volume,  which  I  fear 
it  will  weary  you  to  read  ;  but  I  could  not 
say  less.  I  so  earnestly  wished  you  to 
know  the  truth  about  me.  I  will  now  stop. 
We  are  going  to  Hastings,  —  the  air  is  re- 
commended for  me, — and  we  shall  probably 
be  there  until  after  Christmas. 

"  W^rite  to  me  sometimes,  will  you  not  ? 
—  and  tell  me  whatever  you  can  about 
him. 

"  Ever  sincerely  and  gratefully  yours, 

"  Evelyn  Hamleigh." 

My  hand  shook  so  that  I  could  scarcely 
read  this  letter  to  the  end.  When  I  had 
done,  the  pent-up  misery  of  my  heart  broke 
forth  in  a  great  ci'y. 

"  Too  late,  my  ])oor  darling  !  O  God  ! 
too  late  1 "  And  I  laid  my  head  in  my 
hands  and  sobbed. 

"  Now,  listen,"  said  Francis,  "  before  you 
read  another  letter,  the  seal  of  whi(;h  is  un- 
broken. When  I  received  Miss  ILun- 
leigh's,  my  mind  was  much  trouljled  what 
to  do.  I  had  now  an  additional  motive  tor 
desiring  to  annul  your  engagement  to  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a 
weapon  which,  if  rightly  used,  might  prove 
effectual  to  this  end.     In  your  hands  this 


186 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


weapon,  I  was  aware,  would  be  powerless. 
You  would  never  break  your  prouiise  to 
the  woman  you  were  pledjjed  to  uiarrj' ; 
theretbre,  while  sorely  tempted  to  show  you 
the  letter  on  Thur:;day  last,  I  retrained.  I 
showed  it,  instead,  to  Elizabeth." 

I  raised  my  head,  and  tried  to  read  in 
his  face  what  was  eomin^r ;  but  it  was  in- 
scrutable, or  I  was  too  dazed  to  penetrate 
the  mystery. 

'•  Go  on,"  I  murmured. 

"  The  task  was  a  delicate  one,  for  I  knew 
Elizabeth's  jealousy,  and  —  shall  I  say  it  ? 
—  a    certain    contempt    of    Evelyn's   too 

rliant  character,  as  she  considers  it.  But 
also  knew  her  true  nobility  of  soul.  '  A 
wrong  has  to  be  righted,  and  you  are  the 
only  person  who  can  do  it,'  I  said.  '  Ma- 
dame d'Arnheim  knows  that  I  am  ve- 
hemently opposed  to  her  marriage ;  she 
would  naturally  mistrust  me.  She  entirely 
trusts  you.  You  must  tell  her  the  sub- 
stance of  this  letter,  and  appeal  to  her 
better  nature  to  relinquish  her  claim  upon 
Osmund.'  As  I  anticipated,  she  angrily 
refused,  at  first,  to  interfere.  Why  should 
she  ?  What  business  was  it  of  hers  ?  Eve- 
lyn had  played  fast  and  loose  with  Lord 
Tul'ton,  —  she  had  no  stability.  Marie 
d'Arnheim  was  worth  fifty  such  girls,  and 
Elizabeth  had  far  rather  see  her  your  wife. 
But  her  sense  of  right  in  the  end  prevailed, 
as  I  knew  it  would.  She  sought  her  friend 
with  %  heavy  heart,  and  read  part  of  this 
letter  to  her  ;  of  course  what  referred  to 
Madame  d'Arnheim  herself  it  would  have 
been  needless  cruelty  to  show  her.  Eliza- 
beth described  that  interview  to  me.  It 
has  awakened  a  respect  and  admiration  for 
this  unhappy  lady  I  never  could  feel  before. 
The  result  of  that  morning's  work,  Osmund, 
is  contained  in  this  packet." 

He  laid  a  sealed  letter  on  the  table,  rose, 
and,  first  touching  my  shoulder  with  his 
kindly  hand,  as  he  passed,  left  me  to  digest 
this  second  missive,  and  the  feelings  it 
might  awaken,  in  solitude. 

"  These  are  the  last  words,  my  beloved, 
that  I  shall  ever  write  to  you,  and  when  we 
bid  each  other  good-by  to-morrow,  it  will 
be  forever,  on  this  side  the  grave  1  Yes, 
though  I  have  the  courage  to  write  this,  we 
must  not  meet  again.  In  your  presence, 
when  I  feel  your  eyes  bent  on  me,  my  be- 
loved, as  they  Avere  to-night,  my  strength 
almost  fails  me.  It  is  on  this  account  I 
have  shunned  you.  If  I  am  only  supported 
throu'^rb  to-morrow,  but  for  a  few  minutes, 
it  will  be  the  last  time  this  strength  is 
needed.  God  help  me  !  I  have  passed 
three  sleepless  nights  crying  aloud  to  Him 
for  this  help,  but  it  has  not  come  yet. 

"  Had    it    pleased    God   that    you  had 


needed  me  through  the  long  years  to  come, 
you  would  have  found  me  'faithful  unto 
death.'  As  it  is,  your  hope  and  courage 
will  no  longer  need  sustenance  now.  I 
know  I  laave  been  of  some  use  in  your  life, 
at  a  time  when  all  around  seemed  dark ; 
that  will  l)e  my  solace  in  the  future.  The 
'  little  cousin  '  is  free,  and  is  still  constant 
to  you ;  only  by  base  deception  did  she 
ever  appear  otherwise,  I  am  told.  For 
your  sake,  I  thank  God  that  it  is^so.  Be- 
lieve me,  much  as  I  must  suffer,  I  would 
not  have  it  otherwise.  Do  I  not  know  that 
your  heart  has  never  swerved  from  its  al- 
legiance to  your  early  love  ?  There  is  no 
heroism  in  giving  you  up,  since  I  have 
learnt  that  you  and  Evelyn  may  yet  be 
happy.  I  should  be  a  monster  of  selfishness 
if  1  did  not  resolutely  snap  the  chain  which, 
for  a  short  time,  has  bound  you  and  me 
together.  Your  chivalrous  nature  would 
have  refused  to  sunder  it,  and  thereby  have 
done  me  a  great  wrong.  Would  my  life 
have  been  endurable,  think  you,  if  I  had 
discovered  too  late  that  you  had  married  me 
from  a  false  principle  of '  honor '  ?  No  !  a 
thousand  times  rather  would  I  suffer,  as 
am  now  doing  ;  for,  at  least,  I  suffer  alone. 

"  I  have  told  the  duchess  and  your 
mother.  I  thought  it  well  to  do  so,  before 
we  started  on  our  journey  together ;  it 
might  spare  me  from  attacks  now  rendered 
needless.  Lady  Rachel's  satisfaction  was 
cloudeil,  I  saw,  when  she  learnt  that  the 
rupture  of  our  engagement  was  due  to  a 
letter  of  Miss  Hamleigh's ;  but  she  said 
nothing.  I  doubt  whether  she  will  inter- 
fere further  with  your  future  ;  but  be  wise, 
—  go  to  England  at  once,  and  explain  all 
to  Evelyn  and  her  mother. 

"  And  now,  before  I  say  farewell,  thank 
you  from  my  heart,  beloved,  for  all  the 
good  and  joy  you  have  brought  into  my  sad 
life.  The  briditest  passage  in  it  has  been 
that  now  suddenly  closed,  in  which  1  have 
been  daily  so  near  to  you  that  I  fancy  I 
have  read  every  thought  of  your  heart.  It 
has  made  me  think  better  of  men.  Ever 
since  I  first  met  you  as  a  boy  on  the  steam- 
er, I  have  seen,  through  all  your  faults  and 
follies,  a  true,  noble  nature.  I  had  almost 
lost  my  belief  in  such.  And  the  closer  I 
have  been  drawn  to  your  inward  soul,  wit- 
nessing its  struggles  and  dithculties,  the 
more  has  my  heart  expanded  towards  poor 
sorrowful  humanity.  My  own  crriefs  had 
tended  to  make  me  bitter  and  distrustful. 
I  shall  never  be  so  much  so  again.  I  am 
going  into  outer  darkness,  — •  it  must  needs 
be  so ;  but  I  carry  with  me  the  light  of  a 
pure  and  bright  memory,  that  will  not  fail 
me  as  long  as  life  shall  last.  Am  I  not  the 
riclu^r  for  it  V 

"  Perhaps,  years  hence,  when  I  am  an  old 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


187 


woman,  we  may  meet ;  but  not  until  this 
present  time  shall  seem  like  a  tale  that  is 
told.  You  will  answer  this  letter,  I  know ; 
but  do  not  ask  nie  to  write  again.  It  is 
better  that  I  should  drop  utterly  out*  of  your 
life  ;  I  feel  that  sAe  would  wish  it  to  be  so. 

"  And  now,  my  beloved,  who  have  been 
so  much  more  than  any  thing  else  in  the 
world  to  me,  for  the  last  time,  farewell  ! 
May  God  bless  and  j^reserve  you,  prays 

"  Makie." 

Twelve  hours  later  Elizabeth's  yacht  was 
under  way,  and  she  sailed  for  Corfu,  while 
I  was  speeding  on  my  road  to  England. 
No  woa'd  as  io  my  future  prospects  passed 
between  my  cousin  and  me.  Strange  girl ! 
She  had  Ijeen  the  direct. ajrent  in  brin"ino- 
about-  th.e  great  joy  that  filled  my  whole 
being,  and  made  of  me  a  different  man 
from  the  one. I  have  been  for  the  past  eigii- 
teen  months,  —  yet  now  her  manner  was 
hard,  almost  repellant.  I  had  seen  her 
moved  at  Marie  d'Arnheim's  departure,  but 
now  no  tear  dimmed  her  eye,  as  she  placed 
her  hand  in  mine  and  turned  bruskly  away. 
Poor  child  !  And  this  was  to  be  our  last 
parting  !  It  is  only  now,  when  the  proud, 
sensitive  heart  has  long  been  at  rest,  that  I 
think  I  begin  to  understand  her. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

It  was  on^  of  those  soft,  pearl-gray  days 
which  belong  peculiarly  to  England,  when 
I  reached  Hastings.  My  coming  was  un- 
announced ;  for  fear  that  Lady  Rachel 
mi'iht  still  exercise  enough  influence  over 
]\Irs.  Hamleigh  to  lead  the  latter  to  misin- 
terpret any  letter  of  naine,  I  had  abstained 
from  writing.  I  drove  to  the  address  given 
me  in  Robertson  Terrace,  and  was  told  that 
the  ladies  were'  sitting  on  the  beach.  I 
alighted,  and  hobbled  down  the  steps  from 
the  terrace  to  the  shore.  There,  under  the 
lea  of  a  battered  old  fishing-boat,  whose 
tawny  sail  formed  a  serviceable  protection 
alike  from  westerly  sun  and  wind,  —  wind 
just  enough  to  ripple  the  gray  sea,  and  fret 
the  wave  that  washed  the  yellow  shingle,  sat 
the  slight  figure  I  should  have  known  among 
a  thousand,  albeit  wrapped  in  a  plaid,  with 
a  broad-leaved  hat  overshadowing  her  f'ac(!. 
The  hair  under  it  had  been  cut  short,  and, 
owing  to  this,  perhaps,  the  face  looked  wan, 
and  the  eyes  twice  their  natural  size. 
Those  eyes  were  fixed  dreamily  upon  the 
shinmiering  waters  at  her  feet,  her  thin  lit- 
tle hands  were  knotted  together  about  her 
knees,  books  and  work  lay  beside  her,  but 
she  was  absolutely  idle ;  her  thoughts,  it 
was  clear,  were  very  far  away. 


Good  Heavens  !  how  she  was  changed  ! 
Now  that  I  was  close  to  her,  only  the 
length  of  the  old  boat  dividing  us,  and 
could  trace  the  ravages  of  illness  and  sor- 
row upon  that  sweet  young  face,  I  dreaded 
the  effect  my  sudden  appearance  might 
have  upon  my  dai-ling  in  her  shattered 
state.  Mi-s.  Hamleigh  was  pacing  the 
beach  a  few  yards  olf,  looking  for  pebbles. 
Some  strange  intuition  —  the  maternal  in- 
stinct perhaps  —  made  her  raise  her  head 
at  this  moment,  and  look  in  my  direction. 
I  lifted  my  hat  that  she  might  make  sure 
of  my  identity,  and,  pointing  to  Evelyn, — 
too  absorbed  to  see  what  was  passing  a 
stone's  throw  from  her,  —  I  put  my  finger 
to  my  lips,  and  beckoned  her  mother  to- 
wards me.  I  shall  never  forget  the  gleam 
that  irradiated  that  worn  face  :  it  swept  the 
last  doubt  away  as  to  any  opposition  I 
might  meet.  The  poor  woman  dropped  all 
the  treasures  she  had  been  collecting  for 
the  last  half-hour,  and  with  the  old  galvan- 
ized smile  I  knew  so  well,  came  running 
towards  me,  holding  out  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  where  do  you  come  from  !  Oh,  if 
you  only  knew  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you, 
my  dear,  dear  Osmund  1  Only  think  !  It 
isn't  true,  then,  about  your  marriage  ? 
Well,  really,  —  well,  this  is  delightful.  So 
unexpected.  My  poor,  dear  child,  she  will 
be  "  —  here  she  burst  into  tears. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  ground  had 
been  broken  by  her  mother  to  ray  darling, 
and  I  was  upon  my  knees  beside  her. 

I  doubt  if  the  lives  that  have  run 
smoothly  on  the  well-oiled  wheels  of  pros- 
perity ever  know  the  keen  delight  of  those 
who  have  passed  through  a  great  tribula- 
tion, and  see  the  clouds  parting,  and  the 
sun  shining  on  them  at  last.  What  were 
all  our  past  sufferings  when  weighed  in  the 
balance  with  the  joy  of  that  hour  !  When 
I  took  the  ribbon  from  my  neck,  and 
showed  her  the  lock  of  hair  that  had  never 
left  it,  even  the  shock  of  finding  how  Lady 
Rachel  had  deceived  both  her  mother  and 
herself,  could  only  cloud  my  darling's  hap- 
piness for  a  few  moments.  I  was  her  own 
again,  —  her  own,  as  of  old  ;  before  all  the 
troubles  of  these  last  years  had  come  upon 
us  ;  and  moreover,  the  fear  which  had  al- 
ways overshadowed  her  was  now  with- 
drawn ;  for  lo !  there  sat  her  mother,  smil- 
ing through  her  tears  upon  us  both. 

Poor  Mrs.  Hamleigh  !  She  had  passed 
through  a  season  of  the  severest  trial  to 
which  any  parent  can  be  subjected.  The 
child  lor  whom  she  would  have  laid  down 
her  life  had  been  brought  to  the  brink  of 
the  grave ;  and  the  mother  could  not  but 
feel  that  this  was,  in  a  measure,  her  work. 
She  had  refused  to  believe  in  the  strength 
of  Evelyn's  attachment  un-Ul  too  late.     I 


188 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


had  proved  faithless ;  but  though  she  be- 
Hevod  tliis,  she  must  have  doubted  whether 
Lady  Rachel's  uiauhiuations,  of  which  Mrs. 
Haudeigh  had  beeu  iu  some  cases  the  pas- 
sive iastruuient,  had  not  tended  to  goad  me 
to  evil  courses,  —  to  sever  me  from  Evelyn. 
,  Her  jud'Tment  and  her  conduct  in  this  mat- 
ter had  been  as  dough  in  Lady  Rachel's 
hands  ;  and  those  hands,  as  she  recognized 
now,  were  of  iron.  Not  until  several 
months'  absence  had  rela.xed  this  inrtexil)le 
grasp,  did  the  weak  but  well-meaning 
woman's  mind  regain  some  capacity  ot 
forming  an  unbiassed  opinion.  It  was  no 
wonder  that  she  clung  to  the  idea  of 
Evelyn's  marrying  Tufton  up  to  the  very 
last ;  but  when  this  hope,  to  realize  which 
had  seemed  to  her  the  summit  of  earthly- 
happiness,  was  all  but  accomplisheil,  it  sud- 
denly crumbled  into  dust.  Evelyn  was 
fading  visibly  away  ;  the  "  faculty  "  could 
give  her  mother  no  comfort ;  they  could  not 
"  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ;  "  and  when 
Tufton  announced  Evelyn's  withdrawal 
from  their  engagement,  it  came  almost  as 
a  relief  from  dire  responsibility  upon  the 
poor  distracted  woman.  Then  followed 
months  of  anxious  watching,  of  alternating 
hope  and  tear,  during  which  her  mind  was 
brought  into  a  fitting  condition  to  hail  my 
coming  as  the  one  means  of  restoring  the 
shattered  health  and  spirits  of  her  child. 

During  the  weeks  that  followed,  when 
unbroken  rest  by  night,  and  the  tonic  of 
perfect  happiness  by  day,  were  restoring 
the  roses  to  my  darling's  cheeks,  the  elas- 
ticity to  her  step,  as  of  old,  I  told  her  of 
every  thing  that  concerned  myself,  as  I 
have  told  them  in  these  pages.  I  showed 
her  Marie's  letter,  and  made  her  fully  com- 
prehend, for  the  Jfirst  time,  the  rare  beauty 
and  unselfishness  of  my  poor  friend's  charac- 
ter. What  wonder  that  the  common  judg- 
ment misapprehended  her,  when  even  a 
man  like  Arthur  Tufton  did  so  ?  Opin- 
ions, tied  up  in  bundles,  and  docketed  by 
the  world,  are  distributed  according  to 
general  rough  classifications.  The  "  Ger- 
man sentimentality,"  the  femme  incomprise 
of  whom  Marie  was  sneeriugly  said  to  be  a 
type,  no  more  described  her  than  to  talk 
of  "  ivy  "  is  to  distinguish  the  serrated  out- 
line and  delicate  articulations  of  one  par- 
ticular leaf  from  the  thousand  coarser  varia- 
tions of  the  same  species.  Under  all  na- 
ture's generalities,  the  careful  observer  de- 
tects individuality  ;  and  if  in  the  grass  of 
the  field,  how  much  more  so  among  the 
sons  of  men  ?  But  the  docketing  system 
is  easier  ;  and  therefore  Marie  d'Arnheim, 
except  by  a  very  few,  is  relegated  to  swell 
the  ranks  of  mystic,  lachrymose  women, 
who  are  always  pining  for  what  they  have 
not,  are  addicted  to  a  perilous  Platonism,  I 


and  whose  aggravating  airs  of  superiority 

form   the  best  justification  of  a  husband's 
ill-conduct. 

How  superficial  such  a  view  of  her 
character  was,  I  have  attempted  to  show  ! 
That  I  shall  succeed  in  enlisting  the  sym- 
pathies of  all  other  women  I  cannot  hope; 
nay,  there  are  good  men  who  will  shake 
their  heads  dubiously,  and  speak  of  her 
example  as  "  dangerous."  But,  touching 
this  question  of  example,  I  would  say  one 
word.  If  we  are  to  be  taught  any  thing  by 
learning  all  we  can  of  another  human 
being,  it  must  surely  be  by  the  tendency 
of  the  whole  life,  not  by  any  particular  ac- 
tion in  it.  I  cannot  discuss  my  friend's 
conduct;  it  is  manifestly  impossible  for  me 
to  do  so.  I  know  that  I  owe  her  a  great 
debt  of  gratitude,  and  that,  though  we 
have  never  met  since  the  morning  we 
parted  at  Venice,  now  ten  years  ago,  my 
reverence  and  regard  have  suffered  no 
diminution.  And  I  also  feel  very  sure 
that,  whatever  the  world's  verdict  may  be, 
hereafter,  when  all  hearts  are  laid  bare,  it 
will  be  well  for  many  of  us  if  the  account 
we  have  to  render  up  shows  so  large  a  bal- 
ance to  the  good  as  hers. 

Mrs.  Hamleigh  wrote  at  once  to  my 
mother  ;  but  the  reply  she  received  proved 
that  "  the  little  rift  within  the  lute  "  was 
ma<le,  which  has  since  widened  until  it 
silenced  all  love  and  correspondence  be- 
tween the  two  ladies.  Lady  Rachel,  who 
could  never  brook  opposition  from  any 
one,  found  her  whilom  devoted  worshipper 
assuming  a  tone  of  independence,  and  de- 
fending the  altered  view  she  had  adopted 
of  our  marriage,  with  a  freedom  of  expres- 
sion which  could  not  but  displease  her 
whose  word  had  hitherto  been  as  a  law 
unto  her  friend.  The  lock  of  hair  was 
never  so  much  as  alluded  to  between  them, 
and  nothing;  showed  the  estranirement  and 
distrust  on  both  sides  so  much  as  this  reti- 
cence. Formerly  "  dear  Belinda  "  would 
have  written  gushingly  to  ask  for  an  ex- 
planation of  what  seemed  unjustifiable, 
sure  beforehand  that  her  dearest  Lady 
Rachel  would  clear  it  all  up,  and  ready  to 
swallow  any  sophistry  whereby  crooked 
ways  should  be  made  to  appear  straight. 

I  will  not  affirm,  that,  had  my  mother  re- 
turned to  England  at  this  jiuicture,  she 
might  not  have  regained  some  portion  of 
her  old  ascendency  over  Mrs.  Hamleigh. 
But  she  did  not  return ;  and  when  she 
visited  England  once,  some  years  after- 
wards, the  two  friends  actually  did  not 
meet.  I  received  a  letter  from  her  about  a 
month  after  my  arrival  in  England,  an- 
nouncinn;  her  encrasement  to  Prince  Or- 
sova.  All  that  astute  man's  efforts  to 
escape  had  availed  him  nothing.     He  had 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


189 


been  run  to  earth  at  Baden,  where  the 
duchess  had  of  course  traced  liim  ;  and, 
after  a  feeble  struggle,  had  accepted  his 
destinv  with  a  good  o-race.  And  he  has 
never  had  cause  to  rei^ent.  She  is  the 
very  woman  for  such  a  position,  when 
there  is  no  demand  upon  the  heart,  and 
plenty  upon  the  intelligence.  She  man- 
ages his  atfairs,  she  settles  differences  be- 
tween him  and  his  son  ;  she  rules  him,  as 
she  has  done  nearly  every  creature  with 
whom  she  has  come  into  contact  through 
life,  with  a  sceptre  so  lightly  held  that  no 
one  could  tell  it  was  of  iron. 

The  ease-loving  prince  is  no  doubt  more 
comfortably  in  his  advancing  years  than 
had  he  remained  a  widower.  All  his  wants 
are  ministered  to  ;  and  his  vanity  is  flat- 
tered by  the  homage  paid  to  the  beauty  and 
eminent  virtues  of  the  princess.  They  re- 
side a  part  of  each  year  upon  their  estates 
in  Wallachia,  where  the  princess  has  estab- 
lished industrial  schools,  and  done  much 
good  in  various  ways,  I  am  told.  They  go 
to  Carlsbad  every  summer  ;  sometimes  they 
travel  as  far  as  Paris  —  never,  but  once, 
have  they  been  to  England.  The  prin- 
cess's ties  to  that  country  are  severed  almost 
as  completely  as  those  of  the  renowned  peer- 
ess who  espoused  an  Arab  Sheik.  My 
Uncle  Levison  went  once  to  visit  his  sister, 
shot  wolves  in  the  Wallachian  forests, 
and  brought  home  a  glowing  account  of 
the  magnificence  of  the  prince's  estate ; 
but  Col.  Rich  has  been  dead  now  some 
years,  and  the  princess  has  never  expressed 
a  desire  to  see  any  other  member  of  her 
family  in  her  far-off  home.  As  regards 
myself,  I  neither  wonder  at  nor  regret  this 
—  the  reader  of  these  pages  will  not  require 
to  be  told  why.  If  she  had  not  every  thing 
this  world  can  give  —  if  I  could  be  of  com- 
fort or  service  to  my  mother  in  any  way, 
I  should  go  to  her  at  once  ;  but  such  is  not 
the  case.  There  is  that  in  the  past  which 
renders  the  recollection  of  me  annoying  and 
hurtful  to  her ;  my  presence  would  be  dis- 
tressingly irksome.* 

I  was  married  in  the  spring.  J  had  thrown 
away  my  stick  before  this,  and  had  rejoined 
my  i-egiment  at  Windsor;  and,  in  the  alter- 
nations of  this  quarter  with  London  and 
Dublin,  I  looked  forward  now  to  passing 
some  years,  at  least.  But  Providence  liad 
ordained  otherwise.  I  received  a  letter 
from  Francis  at  Jerusalem  in  the  middle 
of  June,  which  I  can  honestly  affirm  caused 
me  unmixed  sorrow.  It  anncninccjd  Eliza- 
beth's death  of  lever,  caught  by  reckless 
exposure  to  heat  and  over-fatigue  in  the 
desert.     Francis   wrote  with  all   the   ten- 

*  The  princess  Orsova  died  in  Novembor,  1872. 
She  liiul  not  Hfcu  her  sou  lor  five  yeai"s  before 
her  death.  —  Ed. 


derness  of  a  father  who  has  lost  his  own 
child.  "She  is  taken  from  me,"  —  thus 
ran  a  passage  in  his  letter,  —  "  and  it  is 
not  for  me  to  repine,  since  the  gain  is  hers, 
and  she  felt  it  to  be  so.  Her  mind,  which 
had  wandered  much  during  her  illness,  was 
clear  at  tlie  end  ;  and  lier  last  thought  was 
of  you.  'Tell  him,' said  she,  'that  I  am 
very,  very  glad  to  go.  Life  has  been  up- 
hill work  with  me  these  last  two  years; 
now  I  am  going  to  join  my  dad,  and  we 
shall  be  happy  again,  as  we  were  long  ago, 
and  Osmund  will  have  his  own  home  once 
more.  lie  would  never  have  taken  it 
back  if  I  had  lived.  I  am  glad  to  go,  if  it 
was  only  for  that.  Tell  him  that,  though  I 
parted  so  coldly  from  him,  I '  —  here  she 
waited  a  minute,  and  then  added  — '  I  loved 
him  better  than  any  one  on  earth.  Yes, 
you  can  say  that  when  I  am  dead  :  I  shall 
not  mind.  I  have  been  so  wretched  here, 
and  I  shall  be  so  happy  very  soon  —  so 
happy  ? '  I  think  those  were  her  last 
words.  A  smile  stole  over  her  face.  Mrs. 
Everett,  who  has  been  her  constant  nurse, 
stooped  down  and  laid  her  hand  on  Eliza- 
beth's heart,  —  it  had  ceased  to  beat.  We 
have  dug  her  a  grave  under  the  shadow  of 
that  mount  where  He  whose  words  are  our 
best  comfort  at  such  moments  as  these,  sai'd, 
'Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart;  for  they 
shall  see  God.'  Yes,  even  so,  Osmund. 
This  is  my  abiding  trust.  Though  God 
had  not  seen  fit  to  bring  this  nol)le,  crystal- 
clear  young  spirit  into  the  fold  of  his  true 
Church,  she  was  '  pure  in  heart,'  steadf  ist 
and  unselfish  in  her  devotion,  without  guile 
or  shadow  of  deceit ;  therefore,  I  know  she 
has  been  permitted  to  pass  through  the 
golden  gate  into  the  kingdom  of  her  Father 
which  is  in  heaven." 

Elizabeth  left  no  will.  She  knew  that  all 
would  come  to  me  as  heir-at-law,  and  tliat 
she  could  trust  me  not  to  forget  the  com- 
panions of  her  last  journey,  more  especially 
him  to  whom  we  both  owed  so  much.  That 
dear  and  wise  friend  has  his  home  now  at 
Bcaumanoir,  and  will  lead  my  little  boy,  I 
trust,  to  be  a  better  scholar  and  a  better 
man  than  his  father. 

I  left  the  Guards  with  regret;  but  duty 
clearly  pointed  out  another  path  in  life,  and 
I  did  not  hesitate  to  exchange,  like  Cincin- 
natus,  my  sword  for  the  ploughshare.  To 
raise  the  moral,  as  well  as  temporal,  condi- 
tion of  my  poorer  neighbors,  to  add  my 
unit  to  the  sum  of  help  whereby  the  distance 
between  Christian  gentlemen  and  those 
who  are  born  to  labor  by  the  sweat  of 
their  brow  may  be  lessened,  without  our  all 
tumbling  into  the  gulf  of  socialism  which 
yawns  between  us,  —  tliis  has  been  my  chief 
study  since  I  inheriteil  the  j)roperty  of  my 
fathers.     That  my  mind  was  ever  turned 


190 


PENRUDDOCKE. 


to  such  considerations  —  that  I  have  not 
passed  these  years  solely  in  huntiii^jr,  shoot- 
inir,  and  fishiu<i;  —  is  (hie,  first,  to  the  lon;^ 
illness  wliicli,  thoii'j,h  I  looked  upon  it  then 
as  a  i)unisliinent,  1  now  regard  as  a  hless- 
ing  ;  secondly,  to  the  elevating  influence  of 
that  woman's  character  witli  whom  my  own 
came  into  contact  at  a  critical  period  of 
my  life. 

As  time  rolls  on,  I  thank  God  that  I  can 
say  it  confirms  tlie  love  of  my  childhood, 
Avliich  we  may  botli  of  us  now  regard  as 
among  tlie  few  things  in  this  world  that  are 


immutable.  No  shadow  of  jealousy  has 
ever  crossed  our  path  since  tliat  day  when 
we  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  upon  Has- 
ting's  Beach.  Arthur  Tufton,  who  has 
never  married,  comes  to  stay  with  us  once 
or  twice  a  year ;  and  when  Eyelyn's  Con- 
servatism  (which  she  clings  to  as  a  reli- 
gii)n)takes  friiiht  at  some  Liberal  sentiment 
of  mine,  and  I  threaten  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Dresden,  where  Madame  d'Ainheim  will 
feel  more  sympathy  with  my  views,  my 
wife  smiles  in  her  sweet,  calm  way,  and 
asks  when  she  shall  pack  my  portmanteau. 


THE    END. 


JUST    PUBLISHED. 


A   TRIBUTE  TO   THE   CEXTEXARY   OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


SIR    V/ ALTER    SCOTT: 

The  Story  of  his  Life. 

By  R.  SHELTON  MACKENZIE.     With  Portraits  and  Illustrations.     1  vol.  12mo.    $2.00. 

TKE  distinsrnished  Uiferateur,  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie  of  Philadelphia,  has  been  for  somo  time 
engaged  upon  a  life  of  Sir  "Walter  Scott;  and  the  centenary  of  the  author  of  the  Waverley  Novels, 
celebrated  on  the  15th  of  August,  appropriately  suggested  the  publication  of  the  volume  in  connection  with 
that  notable  event. 

The  lapse  of  nearly  fifty  years  that  has  passed  since  Scott  penned  his  last  work  has  not  wasted  the 
freshness  and  interest  of  his  writings,  nor  lessened  the  faBCination  of  their  nobility  of  thought,  artistic  pic- 
turesqueness,  and  truthfulness. 

The  author  has,  as  an  appropriate  and  lasting  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  di.stinguishcd  fellow-coun- 
tryman, prepared  thi.s  biography  of  Scott,  which  is  designed  to  fill  a  place  from  which  the  magnitude  and 
expense  of  more  voluminous  biographies  exclude  them.    It  is  that  of 

A  Popular  Life  of  "  The  Ariosto  of  the  North," 

containing,  in  a  convenient  and  accessible  form,  minute  details  of  his  varied  and  eventful  experiences,  the 
fruits  of  Dr.  Mackenzie's  profound  study  and  enthusiastic  admiration  of  his  subject.  Headers  of  Scott's 
works  will  find  in  this  work  something  more  than  a  mere  biography,  and  welcome  the  volume  as  an  agree- 
able and  valuable  companion  to  his  writings. 

Dr.  Mackenzie  is  well  known  as  an  enthusiastic  admirer  and  profound  student  of  Scott;  and  we  can 
well  imagine  that  his  transcript  of  the  incidents,  sayings,  and  life-work  of  his  illustrious  fellow-countryman 
has  been  a  labor  of  love  to  this  eminent  scholar  and  accomplished  writer. 


***  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.    Sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 

L.A.TE   TiCKNOR   &  FIELDS,   AND  FIELDS,   OsGOOD,   &  CO. 

JUST    PUBLISHED. 


Charles  Reade's  Last  Great  Novel, 
A     TERRIBLE     TEMPTATION. 

Complete  in  1  vol.     Fully  Illustrated.     Paper,  30  cents ;  Cloth,  $1.00. 

By  special  arrangement  ■witli  the  author  of  this  Story,  which  has  excited  a  profound 
sensation  in  all  portions  of  the  world  where  the  English  language  is  read,  the  Publish- 
ers are  enabled  to  give  the  only  authorized  edition  of  the  Story,  with  the  Author's  latest 
revisions  and  corrections,  accompanied  by  the  original  illustrations,  complete  in  book 
form,  simultaneously  with  its  aiipearance  in  England,  and  in  advance  of  its  issue  by  any 
other  publishers  in  this  country. 


"  Messrs.  James  R.  Osgood  .t  Co.  have  just  published  Charles  Reade's  story,  'A  Terrible  Temptation,' 
complete ,in  book  form.  This  will  be  the  earliest  publication  of  the  whole  story  in  this  country,  and  simul- 
taneous with  its  publication  in  England.  Those  who  have  read  the  chapters  published  from  weeli  to  week 
for  some  months  past  in  Every  Saturday,  know  well  enough  how  extremely  interestitig  it  is ;  and,  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  have  not  yet  seen  any  part  of  it,  it  may  be  said,  that  it  will  rank  with  the  most  i)owcr- 
fiil  and  fascinating  works  of  its  author.  This  is  only  another  way  of  saying  that  in  the  qualities  of  plot  and 
dramatic  incident,  and  intensity  of  passion  and  force  of  narration,  it  is  as  great  a  story  as  any  man  now 
living  has  written." —  Boston  haily  Adcertiser. 

'•  It  opens  in  all  the  freshness  and  abounding  sparkle  of  his  style,  and  the  daring  freedom  and  original- 
ity in  which  this  author  is  consi)icuous.  All  who  enjoy  a  good  healthy  and  delightful  story  of  modern  times 
should  not  fail  to  secure  '  A  Terrible  Temptation.'"  —  N.Y.  Globe. 

"  It  is  such  a  novel  as  only  Charles  Rcade  could  have  written,  in  its  fertility  of  invention,  wealth  of  in- 
cident, originality,  dramatic  power,  intense  characterization,  and  startling  innovations  upon  the  literature 
of  fiction.  This'jjrompt  issue  is  the  '  author's  edition,'  sent  out  simultaneously  with  the  aiipearance  of  the 
work  in  P^nelanrl.  It  is  sure  of  a  nuiltitnde  of  readers,  and  equally  sure  of  any  amount  of  criticism.  Heade'8 
genius  is  undeTiiable,  however  l)old  and  unconventional  the  manner  in  which  he  has  chosen  to  exercise  it  in 
the  present  instance." —  Boston  Transcript, 

***  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.    Sent,  postpaid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

JAMES  K.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 

Late  Ticknou  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 


CHARLES  READE'S  NOVELS. 


HOUSEHOLD  EDITION  COMPLETE. 


UNIFORM,  COMPACT,  LEGIBLE,  HANDSOME,  CHEAP. 


\   m*m   i 


The  popular  Household  Edition  of  IMr.  Reade's  Complete  Novels  is  comprised  in 

Ten  Volumes,  as  follows :  — 


Foul  Play 1  vol. 

Hard  Cash.      ...         1  vol. 

White  Lies.  .        .        .1  vol. 

Griffith  Gaunt.        .        .         1  vol. 

Love  me  Little,  Love  me 
Long.  ....    1  vol. 


Never  too  Late  to  Mend.     1  vol. 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth.  1  vol. 

Peg    Woffington,   Christie 

Johnstone,  and  Other  Stories.    1  vol. 


Put  Yourself  in  His  Place. 

A  Terrible  Temptation.     . 

Illustrated. 


1  vol. 
1  vol. 


Price,  $  1.00  a  volume.    The  Set  in  a  neat  box,  $  10.00 ;  Half  Calf,  $  22.50. 


"  This  edition  of  Charles  Reade's  novels  is  somewhat  similar  in  style  to  the  well-known  '  Charles 
Dickens  '  series,  issued  by  the  same  firm.  The  volumes  are  all  neatly  bound,  well  printed,  and  com- 
pact, with  the  fac-simile  signature  of  Charles  Eeade  prominently  displayed  on  the  outside.  We  are 
glad  to  welcome  such  an  acceptable  addition  to  the  American  library  of  modem  English  literature. 
After  Dickens,  no  English  author  of  the  day  appeals  so  directly  to  all  branches  of  the  English-speaking 
race  as  Charles  Reade.  Although  most  of  his  works  are  intensely  English  in  local  coloring,  his  hatred 
of  class  injustice,  of  petty  social  spites  and  prejudices,  of  official  wrongs  and  abuses,  and  his  warm 
sympathy  with  all  the  fresh  and  true  impulses  and  instincts  of  humanity,  secure  for  his  works  appre- 
ciative readers  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken.  Charles  Reade's  works  all  deserve  the  widest 
circle  of  readers,  within  whose  reach  they  can  be  brought,  and  we  are  glad  to  find  that  the  task  of 
placing  them  before  the  American  public  in  a  tasteful  and  convenient  library  form  has  been  undertaken, 
and  so  well  executed,  by  those  so  thoroughly  qualified  for  carrying  it  out  as  the  publishers  of  the 
present  series."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  A  very  pretty  edition  of  Charles  Reade's  novels,  just  such  a  one  as  has  long  been  desired  by  his  nu- 
merous admirers  in  this  country.  It  can  hardly  help  meeting  the  success  it  deserves,  from  its  taste  and 
elegance,  no  less  than  from  the  conspicuous  merits  of  its  author."  —  Liberal  Christian. 

"  The  volumes  are  neatly  printed  and  of  convenient  size.  Jlr.  Reade  is  one  of  the  most  vigorous  of 
modern  writers  of  fiction.  And  in  all  his  works  he  has  a  high  moral  aim,  as  the  exposure  of  some  evil 
that  demands  correction."  —  New  York  Observer. 

"  The  new,  uniform,  elegant,  and  cheap  edition  of  Charles  Reade  is  just  in  time  to  take  the  tide  of  the 
story-teller's  great  and  deserved  popularity."  —  The  Western  Bookseller  ( Chicago). 


V  For  sale  by  all  Booksellers.    Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  Publishers, 

JAMES   R.   OSGOOD  &  CO.,   Boston, 

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